^'■k- 


J:. 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA ; 


OR, 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 


OF  MY 


LITERARY  LIFE  AND  OPINIOiNS. 


BY  S.  T.  COLERIDGE,  Es«?> 


OLUME  r. 


yEJV-YORK: 

?I  BLLSTIED  BY  KIRK  AND  M£RCEI?\ 

No.  22  Wall-street: 

1817. 


1p .,...v.,. 

C.  S.  Tan  Winkle,  Pnniei. 


BIOGRAPHIA  L.ITERARIA: 

OR, 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

OF  MY 

LITERARY   LIFE  AND   OPINIONSi 


So  wenig  er  audi  bestimmt  seya  ma^  andere  zu  belehren,  sa 
wiinscht  er  dock  sich  denen  mitzutheilen,  die  er  sick  gleichg-e- 
sinnt  weiss  odor  hofft,  deren  Anzahl  aber  in  der  Breite  der 
Welt  zerstreut  ist :  er  wiinscht  sein  Verhaltniss  zu  den  altesteu 
Freunden  wieder  anzukniipfen,  nnit  neuen  es  fortzusetzen,  und 
in  der  letzen  generation  sich  wieder  andere  fiir  sein  iibrige 
Lebenszeit  zu  geivinnen.  Er  wiinscht  der  Jug-end  die  Um- 
wege  zu  ersparen,  auf  denen  er  sich  selbst  verirrte. 

Goethe. 

Translation. — Little  call  as  he  my  have  to  instruct  others, 
he  wishes  nevertheless  to  open  out  his  heart  to  such  as  he  either 
knows  or  hopes  to  be  of  like  mind  with  himself,  but  who  are 
widely  scattered  in  the  world  :  he  wishes  to  knit  anew  his 
connections  with  his  oldest  friends,  to  continue  those  recently 
formed,  and  to  win  other  friends  among-  the  rising-  generation 
for  the  remaining  course  of  his  life.  He  wishes  to  spare  the  young 
those  circuitous  paths,  en  which  he  hirr}seli  Lad  lost  his  way. 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA. 


CHAPTER  I; 

The  motives  of  the  pj^esent  work — Reeepiion  of  the  Au' 
thorns  first  puhlication — The  discipline  of  his  taste  at 
school — TJie  effect  of  coritemporary  writers  on  youthful 
minds — Bowleses  sonnets — Comparison  between  the  Fo" 
ets  before  and  since  Mr.  Pope, 

It  has  been  my  lot  to  have  had  my  name  introduced^ 
both  in  conversation  and  in  print,  more  frequently  than 
I  find  it  easy  to  explain,  whether  I  consider  the  fewness, 
unimportance,  and  limited  circulation  of  my  writings, 
or  the  retirement  and  distance  in  which  I  have  lived, 
both  from  the  literary  and  political  world.  Most  often 
it  has  been  connected  with  some  charge  which  I  could 
not  acknowledge,  or  some  principle  which  I  had  never 
entertained.  Nevertheless,  had  I  had  no  other  motive,  or 
incitement,  the  reader  would  not  have  been  troubled  with 
this  exculpation.  What  my  additional  purposes  were, 
yviW  be  seen  in  the  following  pages.  It  will  be  found, 
that  the  least  of  what  I  have  written  concerns  myself 
personally.  I  have  used  the  narration  chiefly  for  the 
purpose  of  giving  a  continuity  to  the  work,  in  part  for  the 
sake  of  the  miscellaneous  reflections  suggested  to  me  by 
particular  events,  but  still  more  as  introductory  to  the 
statement  of  my  principles  in  politics,  religion,  and  phi- 
losophy, and  the  application  of  the  rules,  deduced  from 
philosophical  principles,  to  poetry  and  criticism.  But  of 
the  objects  which  1  proposed  to  myself,  it  was  not  the 
least  important  to  effect,  as  far  as  possible,  a  settlement  of 
the  long  continued  controversy  concjerning  the  true  nature 
of  poetic  diction:  and,  at  the  same  time,  to  define  with  th^ 

Vol.  r.  1 


utmost  impartiality  the  real  poetic  character  of  the  poet, 
Ijy  whose  writings  this  controversy  was  first  kindled^  and 
has  been  since  fuelled  and  fanned. 

In  1794,  when  J  had  barely  passed  the  verge  of  man- 
hood, I  publislied  a  small  volume  of  junvenile  poems* 
They  were  received  with  a  degree  of  favour  which, 
young  as  I  was,  I  well  know  was  bestowed  on  them  not 
so  much  for  any  positive  merit,  as  because  they  were  con- 
sidered buds  ol  hope,  and  promises  of  better  works  to 
come.  The  critics  of  that  day,  the  most  flattering,  equal- 
ly with  the  severest,  concurred  in  objecting  to  ihem,  ob- 
scurity, a  general  turgidness  of  diction,  and  a  profusion  of 
new  coined  double  epithets.*  The  first  is  the  fault  which 
a  writer  is  the  least  able  to  detect  in  his  own  composi- 
tions ;  and  my  mind  was  not  then  sufficient!}'  disciplined 
to  receive  the  authority  of  others,  as  a  substitute  for  my 
own  conviction.  Satisfied  that  the  thoughts,  such  as  they 
were,  could  not  have  been  expressed  otherwise,  or  at 
least  more  perspicuously,  1  forgot  to  inquire,  whether  the 
thoughts  themselves  did  not  demand  a  degree  of  atten- 
tion unsuitable  to  the  nature  and  objects  of  poetry.  This 
remark  however  applies  chiefly,  though  not  exclusively,  to 
the  Religious  .Musings.  The  remainder  of  the  charge  I 
admitted  to  its  full  extent,  and  not  without  sincere  ac- 
knowledgments to  both  my  private  and  public  censors 
for  their  friendly  admonitions.     In  the    after   editions,  I 

*  The  authoriU-  of  Milton  and  Shakspeare  may  be  usefully  pointed 
out  to  young-  authors.  In  the  Comus,  aiul  earlier  poems  of  Milton  there 
is  a  s^upei-fluity  of  double  e})ilhet.s  ;  while  in  the  Paradise  Lost  we  (Ind 
verj-  few^  in  the  Paradise  J-leg-ained  scarce  any.  The  same  remark 
holds  almost  equally  true  of  the  Loa  e's  Labour  Lost,  Romeo  and  Juliet^ 
Venus  and  Adonis,  and  Lucrece,  compared  with  the  Lear,  Macbeth, 
Othello,  and  Ham'et  of  our  g-roat  dramatist.  The  rule  for  the  admission 
of  double  epithets  seems  to  be  this  :  either  that  they  should  be  already  de- 
nizens of  our  lang-uag:e,  suc^i  as  blood-stained,  ferror-stricken,  serf-ap- 
plauding :  or  when  a  new  epithet,  or  one  found  in  books  only,  is  hazard- 
ed, that  it,  at  It;ast,  be  one  word,  not  two  words  made  one  by  mere  virtue 
of  the  printer's  hyphen.  A  language  which,  like  the  Engfish,  is  almost 
without  cases,  is  indeed  in  its  \  ery  genius  unfitted  for  compounds.  If  a 
writer,  e\'erv  time  a  compounded  "word  suggests  itself  to  him,  would  seek 
for  some  other  mode  of  expressing  the  same  sense,  the  chances  are  al- 
ways greatly  in  favour  of  his  finding-  a  better  word.  '*  Tanquam  scopu- 
lum  sic  vites  insoUns  veibum,"  is  tlie  wise  advice  of  Cfesar  to  the  Roman 
orators,  and  the  j)i-ecept  applies  with  double  force  to  the  writers  in  our 
<>wn  language.  But  it  must' not  be  forgotten,  that  the  same  Caesar  wrote 
a  granunatical  treatise  for  the  purpose  of  reforming  the  ordinary  language 
hy  biinging  it  to  a  greater  accordance  with  the  principles  of  logic  or  uni- 
versal grunmiar.. 


pruned  the  double  epithets  with  no  sparing  hand,  and  used 
my  best  efforts  to  tame  the  swell  and  glitter  both  of 
thought  and  diction  ;  though,  in  truth,  these  parasite  plants 
of  youthful  poetry  had  insinuated  themselves  into  my 
longer  poems  with  such  intricacy  of  union,  that  I  was 
obliged  to  omit  disentanglin«(  the  weed,  from  the  fear  of 
snapping  the  flower  From  that  period  to  the  date  of  the 
present  work  I  have  published  nothing,  with  my  name, 
which  could  by  any  possibility  have  come  before  the 
board  of  anonymous  criticism.  Even  the  three  or  four 
poems,  printed  with  the  works  of  a  friend,  as  far  as  they 
were  censured  at  all,  were  charged  with  the  same  or  si- 
milar defects,  though  I  am  persuaded  not  with  equal  jus- 
tice :  with  an  excess  of  ornament,  in  addition  to  strain- 
ed AND  ELABORATE  DICTION.  (Vide  the  criticisms  on  the 
''  Ancient  Mariner,"  in  the  Monthly  arid  Critical  Review- 
ers ofthefint  volume  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads.)  May  I  be 
permitted  to  add,  that,  even  at  the  early  period  of  my 
juvenile  poems,  1  saw  and  admitted  the  superiority  of  an 
austerer,  and  more  natural  style,  with  an  insight  not  less 
clear,  than  I  at  present  possess.  My  judgment  was  strong- 
er than  were  my  powers  of  realizing  its  dictates  ;  and 
the  faults  of  my  language,  though  indeed  partly  owing  to 
a  wrong  choice  of  subjects,  and  the  desire  of  giving  a 
poetic  colouring  to  abstract  and  metaphysical  truths,  in 
w  hich  a  new  world  then  seemed  to  open  upon  me,  did  yet, 
in  part  likewise,  originate  in  unfeigned  diffidence  of  my 
own  comparative  talent.  During  several  years  of  my 
youth  and  early  manhood,  I  reverenced  those  who  had 
re- introduced  the  manly  simplicity  of  the  Grecian,  and 
ot*  our  own  elder  poets,  with  such  enthusiasm,  as  made 
the  hope  seem  presumptuous  of  writing  successfully  in  the 
same  style.  Perhaps  a  similar  process  has  happened  to 
others  ;  but  my  earliest  poems  were  marked  by  an  ease 
and  simplicity  which  I  have  studied,  perhaps  with  infe- 
rior success,  to  impress  on  my  later  compositions. 

At  school  I  enjoyed  the  inestimable  advantage  of  a 
very  sensible,  though  at  the  same  time,  a  very  severe 
master.  Le^  early  moulded  my  taste  to  the  preference 
of  Demosthenes  to  Cicero,  of  Homer  and  Theocritus  to 

*  The  Rev.  .James  Bowyer,  many  years  Head  Muster  of  the  Grammar 
sghool,  Christ  Hospital. 


8 

Virc^il,  and  again  of  Virgil  to  Ovid.  He  habituated  me 
to  compare  Lucretius,  (in  such  extracts  as  I  then  read) 
Terence,  and,  above  all,  the  chaster  poems  of  Catullus, 
not  only  with  the  Roman  poets  of  the,  so  called,  silver 
and  brazen  ai^es  ;  but  with  even  those  ot  the  Augustan 
era  :  and  on  grounds  of  plain  sense  and  universal  logic 
to  see  and  assert  the  superiority  of  the  former,  in  the 
truth  and  nativeness,  both  of  their  thoughts  and  diction. 
At  the  same  time  that  we  were  studying  the  Greek  tra- 
gic poets,  he  made  us  read  Shakspeare  and  Milton  as  les- 
sons :  and  they  were  the  lessons  too,  which  required  most 
time  and  trouble  to  bring  up,  so  as  to  escape  his  censure. 
1  learnt  from  him  that  poetry,  even  that  of  the  loftiest, 
and,  seemingly,  that  of  the  wildest  odes,  had  a  logic  of 
its  own,  as  severe  as  that  of  science  ;  and  more  difficult, 
because  more  subtle,  more  complex,  and  dependent  on 
niore,  and  more  fugitive  causes  In  the  truly  great  poets, 
he  would  say,  there  is  a  reason  assignable,  not  only  for 
every  word,  but  for  the  position  of  every  word  ;  and  I 
well  remember,  that  availing  himself  of  the  synonimies 
to  the  Homer  of  Didymus,  he  made  us  attempt  to  show, 
with  regard  to  each,  why  it  would  not  have  answered  the 
same  purpose  ;  and  wherein  consisted  the  peculiar  fitness 
of  the  word  in  the  original  text. 

In  our  own  English  compositions  (at  least  for  the  last 
three  years  of  our  school  education)  he  showed  no  mercy 
to  phrase,  metaphor,  or  image,  unsupported  by  a  sound 
sense,  or  where  the  same  sense  might  have  been  con- 
veyed with  equal  force  and  dignity  in  plainer  words. 
Lute,  harp,  and  lyre,  muse,  muses,  and  inspirations,  Pe- 
gasus, Parnassus,  and  Hipocrene,  were  all  an  abomina- 
tion to  him  In  fancy  I  can  almost  hear  him  now,  ex- 
claiming "  Harp?  Harp?  Lyre  ?  Pen  and  ink,  boy,  you 
mean!  Muse,  boy,  Muse?  your  JVurse^s  daughter,  you 
mean  !  Pierian  spring  ?  Oh  ""aye !  the  cloister-pump,  I 
suppose  /"  Nay,  certain  introductions,  similies,  and  ex- 
amples, were  placed  by  name  on  a  list  of  interdiction. 
Among  the  similies,  there  was,  1  remember,  that  of  the 
Manchineel  fruit,  as  suiting  equally  well  with  too  many 
subjects  ;  in  which,  however,  it  yielded  the  palm  at  once 
to  the  example  of  Alexander  and  Clytus,  which  was 
equally  good  and  apt,  whatever  might  be  the  theme. 
Was   it   ambition  ?    Alexander   and    Clytus !    Flattery  "^ 


Alexander  and  Clytus  !  Anger  ? — Drunkenness  ?  Prrde  ? 
Friendship?  Ingratitude?  Late  repentance?  Still,  still 
Alexander  and  Clytus  I  At  length,  the  praises  of  agricul- 
ture having  been  exemplified  in  the  sagacious  observa- 
tion, that  had  Alexander  been  holding  the  plough  he 
would  not  have  run  his  friend  Clytus  through  with  a 
spear,  this  tried,  and  serviceable  old  friend  was  banished 
by  public  edict  in  secula  seculorum.  I  have  sometimes 
ventured  to  think,  that  a  list  of  this  kind,  or  an  index  ex- 
purgatorious  of  certain  well  known  and  ever  returning 
piirases,  both  introductory,  and  transitional,  including 
the  large  assortment  of  modest  egotisms,  and  flattering 
illeisms,  &c.  Lc.  might  be  hung  up  in  our  law-courts,  and,., 
both  bouses  of  parliament,  with  great  advantage  to  the 
public,  as  an  important  saving  of  national  time,  an  incal- 
culable relief  to  his  Majesty's  ministers,  but,  above  all, 
as  insuring  the  thanks  of  country  attorneys  and  their 
clients,  who  have  private  bills  to  carry  through  the  house. 
Be  this  as  it  may,  there  was  one  custom  of  our  master 
wh;ch  I  cannot  pass  over  in  silence,  because  I  think  it 
i.ni table  and  worthy  of  imitation.  He  wauld  often  per- 
mit our  theme  exercises,  under  some  pretext  of  want  of 
time,  to  accumulate,  till  each  lad  had  four  or  five  to  be 
looked  over.  Then  placing  the  whole  number  a^rca^^  on 
his  desk,  he  would  ask  the  writer,  why  this  or  that  sen- 
tence might  not  have  found  as  appropriate  a  place  under 
this  or  that  other  thesis  :  and  if  no  satisfying  answer  could 
be  returned,  and  two  faults  of  the  same  kind  were  found 
in  one  exercise,  the  irrevocable  verdict  followed,  the  ex- 
ercise was  torn  up,  and  another  on  the  same  subject  to  be 
produced,  in  addition  to  the  tasks  of  the  day.  The  rea- 
der will,  I  trust,  excuse  this  tribute  of  recollection  to  a 
man,  v/hose  severities,  even  now,  not  seldom  furnish  the 
dreams,  by  which  the  blind  fancy  would  fain  interpret  to 
the  mind  the  painful  sensations  of  distempered  sleep,  but 
neither  lessen  nor  dim  the  deep  sense  of  my  moral  and 
intellectual  obligations.  He  sent  us  to  the  university 
excellent  Latin  and  Greek  scholars,  and  tolerable  Hebra- 
ists Yet  our  classical  knowledge  was  the  least  of  the 
good  gifts  which  we  derived  from  his  zealous  and  con- 
scientious tutorage.  He  is  now  gone  to  his  final  reward, 
full  of  years,  and  full  of  honours,  even  of  those  honours 
which  were  dearest  to  his  heart,  as  gratefully  bestowed 
1* 


10 

by  that  school,  and  still  bindrng  him  to  the  interests  of 
that  school,  in  which  he  had  been  himself  educated,  and 
to  which  during  his  whole  life  he  was  a  dedicated  thing. 

From  causes,  which  this  is  not  the  place  to  investigate, 
no  models  of  past  times,  however  perfect,  can  have  the 
same  vivid  effect  on  the  youthful  mind,  as  the  productions 
of  contemporary  genius.  The  discipline  my  mind  had 
undergone,  ''  Ne  falleretur  rotundo  sono  et  versuum  cursu, 
cincinnis  et  floribus  ;  sed  ut  inspiceret  quidnam  subesset, 
quae  sedes,  quod  firmamentum,  quis  fundus  verbis  ;  an 
figurae  essent  mera  ornatura  et  orationis  fucus  :  vel  san- 
guinis e  materiae  ipsius  corde  effluentis  rubor  quidam  na- 
tivus  et  incalescentia  genuina  ;''  removed  all  obstacles  to 
the  appreciation  of  excellence.- m  style  without  diminish- 
ing my  delight.  That  1  was  thus  prepared  for  the  peru- 
s'al  of  Mr.  Bowles's  sonnets  and  earlier  poems,  at  once 
increased  their  influence  and  7ny  enthusiasm.  The  great 
works  of  past  ages  seem,  to  a  young  man,  things  of  another 
race,  in  respect  to  which  his  faculties  must  remain  pas.-ive 
and  submiss,  even  as  to  the  stars  and  mountains.  But  the 
writings  of  a  contemporary,  perhaps  not  many  years  el- 
der than  himself,  surrounded  by  the  same  circumstances, 
and  disciplined  by  the  same  manners,  possess  a  reality 
for  him,  and  inspire  an  actual  friendship  as  of  a  man  for 
a  man  His  very  admiration  is  the  wind  which  fans  and 
feeds  his  hope.  The  poems  themselves  assume  the  pro- 
perties of  flesh  and  blood.  To  recite,  to  extol,  to  con- 
tend for  them,  is  but  the  payment  of  a  debt  due  to  one 
who  exists  to  receive  it. 

There  are  indeed  modes  of  teachings  which  have  pro- 
duced, and  are  producing,  youths  of  a  very  diflerent 
stamp  ;  modes  of  teaching,  in  comparison  with  which  we 
have  been  called  on  to  despise  our  great  public  schools, 
and  universities, 

"  In  whose  halls  are  hung* 
Armoury  of  the  invincible  knights  of  old" — 

modes  by  which  children  are  to  be  metamorphosed  into 
prodigies.  And  prodigies  with  a  vengeance  have  1  known 
thus  produced!  Prodigies  of  self-conceit,  shallowness, 
arrogance,  and  infidelity  !  Instead  of  storing  the  memory^ 
during  the  period  when  the  memory  is  the  predominant 
faculty,  with  facts  for  the  after  exercise  of  the  judgment  ^ 


11 

and  instead  of  awakenino-  by  the  noblest  mod<^Is  the  fond 
and  unmixed  Love  and  Admiration,  which  is  the  natural 
and  graceful  temper  of  early  youth  ;  these  nurselings  of 
improved  pedagogy  are  taught  to  dispute  and  decide  ; 
to  suspect  all  but  their  own  and  their  lecturer's  wisdom  ; 
and  to  hold  nothing  sacred  from  their  contempt  but  their 
own  contemptible  arrogance  ;  boy-graduates  in  all  the 
technicals,  and  in  all  the  dirty  passions  and  impudence 
of  anonymous  criticism  To  such  dispositions  alone  can 
the  admonition  of  Pliny  be  requisite,  "  Neque  enim  de- 
bet operibus  ejus  obesse,  quod  vivit.  An  si  inter  eos, 
quos  nunquam  vidimus,  floruisset,  non  solum  libros  ejus, 
verum  etiam  imagines  conquireremus,  ejusdem  nunc  honor 
pra.^senlis,  et  gratia  quasi  satietate  languescet  ?  At  hoc 
pravum,  raalignumque  est,  non  admirari  hominem  admi- 
ralione  dignissimum,  quia  videre,  complecti,  nee  laudare 
tantum,  verum  etiam  amare  contingit."  Plin.  Epist. 
Lib,  L 

I  had  just  entered  on  my  seventeenth  year,  when  the 
sonnets  of  Mr.  Bowles,  twenty  in  number,  and  just  then 
published  in  a  quarto  pamphlet,  were  first  made  known 
and  presented  to  me  by  a  schoolfellow  who  had  quitted 
lis  for  the  university,  and  who,  during  the  whole  time 
that  he  was  in  our  first  form,  (or,  in  our  school  language, 
a  Grecian,)  had  been  my  patron  and  protector.  I  refer 
to  Dr.  Middleton,  the  truly  learned,  and  Q\'efy  way  ex- 
cellent Bishop  of  Calcutta  : 

*'  Qui  lauiiibus  amplis 
Inpi-enium  celebrare  meiim,  calainumque  solebat,. 
Calcar  agens  animo  valid um.     Non  omnia  terrai 
Obruta*  Vivit  amor,  vivit  dolor!     Ora  negatur 
Dulcia  conspicere  ;  at  flere  et  meminisse*  relictum  est.''~ 

Peti\  Ep.  Lib,  L  Ep,  L 

It  was  a  double  pleasure  to  me,  and  still  remains  a  ten- 
der recollection,  that  I  should  have  received  from  a  friend 
so  revered  the  first  knowledge  of  a  poet,  by  whose  works, 

*  I  am  most  happy  to  have  the  necessity  ofinformin^  the  reader,  that 
since  this  passag-e  a\  as  written,  the  report  of  Ih\  Midclleton's  death,  on- 
his  voyajre  to  India,  has  be<?ii  proved  erroneous.  He  lives,  and  long:  may 
he  Hve  ;  for  I  dare  prophecy,  that  with  his  life  only  will  his  exertions  fbr 
the  temporal  and  spiritual  welfare  of  tiis  fellow  nien.  be  limited. 


12 

year  after  year,  1  was  so  enthusiastically  delighted  and 
inspired.  My  earliest  acquaintances  will  not  have  for- 
gotten the  undisci})iined  eagerness  and  impetuous  zeal 
with  which  1  laboured  to  make  proselytes,  not  only  of 
my  companions,  but  of  all  with  whom  I  conversed  of 
whatever  rank,  and  in  whatever  place.  As  my  school 
finances  did  not  permit  me  to  purchase  copies,  I  made, 
within  less  than  a  year  and  an  half,  more  than  forty 
transcriptions,  as  the  best  presents  I  could  offer  to  those, 
who  had  in  any  way  won  my  regard.  And  with  almost 
equal  delight  did  1  receive  the  three  or  four  following 
publications  of  the  same  author. 

Though  1  have  seen  and  known  enough  of  mankind  to 
])e  well  aware,  that  1  shall  perhaps  stand  alone  in  my 
creed,  and  that  it  will  be  well  if  1  subject  myself  to  no 
worse  charge  than  that  of  singularity  ;  I  am  not  there- 
fore deterred  from  avowing,  that  I  regard,  and  ever  have 
reiirarded  the  obli<^ations  of  intellect  anionic:  the  most  sa- 
cred  of  the  claims  of  gratitude.  A  valuable  thought,  or 
a  particular  train  of  thoughts,  gives  me  additional  plea- 
sure, when  I  can  safely  refer  and  attribute  it  to  the  con- 
versation or  correspondence  of  another.  My  obligations 
to  Mr.  Bowles  were  indeed  important,  and  for  radical 
good.  At  a  very  premature  age,  even  before  my  fifteenth 
year,  1  had  bewildered  myself  in  metaphysics,  and  in 
theological  controversy.  Nothing  else  pleased  me-  His- 
tory, and  particular  facts  lost  all  interest  in  my  mind. 
Poetry  (though  for  a  school-boy  of  that  age,  I  was  above 
par  in  English  versification,  and  had  already  produced 
two  or  three  compositions  which,  I  may  venture  to  say, 
without  reference  to  my  age,  were  somewhat  above  me- 
diocrity, and  which  had  gained  me  more  credit  than  the 
sound  good  sense  of  my  old  master  was  at  all  pleased 
with)  poetry  iiself,  yea  novels  and  romances,  became  in- 
sipid to  me.  In  my  friendless  wanderings  on  our  leave- 
days,'^  (for  I  was  an  orphan,  and  had  scarce  any  connex- 
ions in  London)  highly  was  I  delighted,  if  any  passenger, 
especially  if  he  were  drest  in  black,  would  enter  into  con- 
versation with  me.  For  \  soon  found  the  means  of  direct- 
ing it  to  my  favourite  subjects 

*  The  Christ  hospital  phrase,  not  for  holidays  altogether,  but  for  those 
ctn  which  the  boys  are  permitted  to  go  beyond  the  precincts  of  the  schooL 


J3 

Of  providence,  forc-knowled<^e,  will,  and  fate, 
Fix'd  fate,  free  will,  fore-knowledg-e  absolute, 
And  found  no  end  in  wandering"  mazes  lost. 

This  preposterous  pursuit  was,  beyond  doubt,  injurious, 
both  to  my  natural  powers,  and  to  the  progress  of  my  edu- 
cation. It  would  perhaps  have  been  destructive,  had  it 
been  continued  ;  but  from  this  I  was  auspiciously  with- 
drawn, partly  indeed  by  an  accidental  introduction  to  an 
amiable  family,  chiefly  however,  by  the  genial  influence 
of  a  style  of  poetry,  so  tender,  and  yet  so  manly,  so  na- 
tural and  real,  and  yet  so  dignified,  and  harmonious  as  the 
sonnets,  &c.  of  Mr.  Bowles  !  Well  w^ere  it  for  me,  per- 
haps, had  {  never  relapsed  into  the  same  mental  disease  ; 
if  1  had  continued  to  pluck  the  flower  and  reap  the  har- 
vest from  the  cultivated  surface,  instead  of  delving  in  the 
imwholesome  quicksilver  mines  of  metaphysic  depths. 
But  if  in  after  time  I  have  sought  a  refuge  from  bodily 
pain  and  mismanaged  sensibility  in  abstruse  researches, 
which  exercised  the  strength  and  subtlety  of  the  under- 
standing without  awakening  the  feelings  of  the  heart  ; 
still  there  was  a  long  and  blessed  interval,  during  which 
my  natural  faculties  were  allowed  to  expand,  and  my  ori- 
ginal tendencies  to  develope  themselves  ;  my  fancy,  and 
the  love  of  nature,  and  the  sense  of  beauty  in  forms  and 
sounds. 

The  second  advantage,  which  I  owe  to  my  early  peru- 
sal, and  admiration  of  these  poems  (to  which  let  me  add, 
though  known  to  me  at  a  somewhat  later  period,  the 
Lewsdon  Hill  of  Mr.  Crow)  bears  more  immediately  on 
my  present  subject.  Among  those  with  whom  I  convers- 
ed, there  were,  of  course,  very  many  who  had  formed 
their  taste,  and  their  notions  of  poetry,  from  the  writings 
of  Mr.  Pope  and  his  followers  :  or,  to  speak  more  generally, 
in  that  school  of  French  poetry,  condensed  and  invigorated 
by  English  understanding,  which  had  predominated  from 
the  last  century.  I  was  not  blind  to  the  merits  of  this 
school,  yet,  as  from  inexperience  of  the  world,  and  conse- 
quent want  of  sympathy  with  the  general  subjects  of  these 
poems,  Ihey  gave  me  little  pleasure,  1  doubtless  under- 
valued the  kind,  and  with  the  presumption  of  youth  with- 
held from  its  masters  the  legitimate  name  of  poets,  I 
^aw   that  the  excellence  of  this  kind  consisted  in  just  and 


14 

acute  observations  on  men  and  manners  in  an  artificial 
state  ofsociety,  as  its  matter  and  substance  ;  and  in  the  lo- 
gic ot'  wit,  conveyed  in  smooth  and  strong  epigrammatic 
couplets,  as  lis  form  Even  when  the  suliject  was  addressed 
to  the  fancy,  or  the  intellect,  as  in  the  Hape  of  the  Lock, 
or  the  Essay  on  Man  ;  nay,  when  it  was  a  consecutive 
narration,  as  in  that  astonishing  product  of  matchless  ta- 
Jent  and  ingenuity,  Pope's  translation  of  the  Iliad  ;  still 
a  point  was  looked  for  at  the  end  of  each  second  line, 
and  the  whole  was  as  it  were  a  sorites,  or,  if  I  may  ex- 
change a  logical  for  a  grammatical  metaphor,  a  conjunc- 
tion disjunctive  of  epigrams.  Meantime  the  matter  and 
diction  seemed  to  me  characterised  not  so  much  by  poetic 
thoughts,  as  by  thoughts  translated  into  the  language  of 
poetry.  On  this  last  point,  I  had  occasion  to  render  my 
own  thoughts  gradually  more  and  more  plain  to  myself, 
by  frequent  amicable  disputes  concerning  Darwin's  Bo- 
tanic Garden,  which,  for  some  years,  was  greatly  extol- 
led, not  only  by  the  reading  public  in  general,  but  even 
by  those  whose  genius  and  natural  robustness  of  under- 
standing enabled  them  afterwards  to  act  foremost  in  dis- 
sipating these  ''  painted  mists"  that  occasionally  rise 
from  the  marshes  at  the  foot  of  Parnassus.  During  my 
first  Cambridge  vacation,  I  assisted  a  friend  in  a  contri- 
bution for  a  literary  society  in  Devonshire  ;  and  in  this  I 
remember  to  have  compared  Darwin's  vrork  to  the  Rus- 
sian palace  of  ice,  glittering,  cold  and  transitory.  In  the 
same  essay  too,  I  assigned  sundry  reasons,  chiefly  drawn 
from  a  comparison  of  passages  in  the  Latin  poets  with  the 
original  Greek,  from  whieh  they  were  borrowed,  for  the 
preference  of  Collins's  odes  to  those  of  Gray  ;  and  of  the 
simile  in  Shakspeare  : 

*'  How  like  a  younker  or  a  prodigal, 

The  skarfed  bark  puts  from  her  native  bay 

Plugged  and  embraced  by  the  strumpet  wind! 

How  like  a  prodigal  doth  she  return, 

With  over-weather'd  ribs  and  ragged  sails, 

Lean,  rent,  and  beggarM  by  the  strumpet  wind'J*^ 

to  the  imitation  in  the  bard  ; 

•*  Fair  laughs  the  morn,  and  soft  the  zephyr  blows 
While  proudly  riding  o'er  the  azure  realm 


15 

In  gallant  trim  the  g-ilded  vessel  goes, 

YoLTH  at  the  prow  and  pleasure  at  the  helm, 

Regardless  of  the  sweeping-  whirlwind's  sway, 

That,  hush'd  in  grim  repose,  expects  its  evening  prey." 

(Tn  which,  bj-the-by,  the  words  '*realm"  and  *'s\vay'' 
are  rhymes  dearly  purchased.)  I  preferred  the  original 
on  the  ground,  that  in  the  imitation  it  depended  wholly 
in  the  compositor's  putting,  or  not  putting,  a  small  capital, 
both  in  this  and  in  many  other  passage.^  of  the  same  poet, 
whether  the  words  should  be  personifications  or  mere  ab- 
stracts. I  mention  this  because,  in  referring  various  lines 
in  Gray  to  their  original  in  Shakspeare  and  Milton  ;  and 
in  the  clear  perception  how  completely  all  the  propriety 
was  lost  in  the  transfer;  I  was,  at  that  early  period,  led 
to  a  conjecture  which,  many  years  afterwards,  was  re- 
called to  me  from  the  same  thought  having  been  started 
in  conversation,  but  far  more  ably,  and  developed  more 
fully,  by  Mr.  Wordsworth  ;  namely,  that  this  style  of 
poetry,  which  I  have  characterised  above,  as  translations 
of  prose  thoughts  into  poetic  language,  had  been  kept  up 
by,  if  it  did  not  wholly  arise  from,  the  custom  of  writing 
Latin  verses,  and  the  great  importance  attached  to  these 
exercises  in  our  public  schools.  Whatever  might  have 
been  the  case  in  the  fifteenth  centurv,  when  the  use  of 
the  Latin  tongue  was  so  general  among  learned  men  that 
Erasmus  is  said  to  have  forgotten  his  native  language  ; 
yet,  in  the  present  cay,  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  a 
youth  can  think  in  Latin,  or  that  he  can  liave  any  other 
reliance  on  the  force  or  fitness  of  his  phrases  but  the  au- 
thority of  the  author  from  whence  he  has  adopted  them. 
Consequently,  he  must  first  prepare  his  thoughts,  and 
then  pick  out,  from  Virgil,  Horace,  Ovid,  or  perhaps 
more  compendiously  from  his"^  Gradus,  halves  and  quar- 
ters of  lines,  in  which  to  embody  them. 


*  In  the  Nutricia  of  Politian  there  occurs  this  line  : 

"  Purii  (oloritos  interstrepjt  unda  lapillo.s." 

Casting  my  eye  on  a  University  prize-po^m,  I  mot  this  line  : 
*'  Lactea  purpuroos  interstrepit  unda  lapillos." 

Now  look  out  in  the  Gradus  for  PurUSj  and  you  find  as  the  first  syiio- 
nime,  lacieus  ;  for  coloratus,  and  the  first  synonime  is  purpureiis.  I  men- 
lion  this  by  way  of  elucidating  one  of  the  most  ordinary  processes  in  the 
ferruminaiion  of  these  centos. 


IG 

I  never  object  to  a  certain  degree  of  disputatiousness 
in  a  young  rrian  from  the  age  of  seventeen  to  that  of  four 
or  fivc-and-twenty,  provided  I  find  him  always  arguing 
on  one  side  of  the  question.  The  controversies  occa- 
sioned by  my  unfeigned  zeal  for  the  honour  of  a  favourite 
contemporary,  then  known  to  me  only  by  his  works, 
were  of  great  advantage  in  the  formation  and  establish- 
ment of  my  taste  and  critical  opinions.  In  my  defence 
of  the  lines  running  into  each  other,  instead  of  closing  at 
each  couplet ;  and  of  natural  language,  neither  bookish 
nor  vulgar,  neither  redolent  of  the  lamp  or  of  the  kenntl, 
such  as  /  will  remember  thee;  in-tead  of  the  same  thought 
tricked  up  in  the  rag-fair  finery  of 


Thy  image  on  her  win^ 

Before  my  fa^jcy'^  eye  shall  imemohy  bring", 

I  had  continually  to  adduce  the  metre  and  diction  of  the 
Greek  poets  from  Homer  to  Theocritus  inclusive  ;  and 
still  more  of  our  elder  English  poets  from  Chaucer  to 
Milton.  Nor  was  this  all.  But  as  it  was  my  constant 
reply  to  authorities  brought  against  me  from  later  poets 
of  great  name,  that  no  authority  could  avail  in  opposition 
to  Truth,  Nature,  Logic,  and  the  Laws  of  Universal 
Grammar  ;  actuated,  too,  by  rny  former  passion  for  meta- 
physical investigations,  I  laboured  at  a  solid  foundation 
on  which,  permanently,  to  ground  my  opinions  in  the 
component  faculties  of  the  human  mind  itself,  and  their 
comparative  dignity  and  importance.  According  to  the 
faculty,  or  source,  from  which  the  pleasure  given  by  any 
poem  or  passage  was  derived,  I  estimated  the  merit  of 
such  poem  or  passage.  As  the  result  of  all  my  reading 
and  meditation,  I  abstracted  two  critical  aphorisms,  deem- 
ing them  to  comprise  the  conditions  and  criteria  of  poetic 
style  ;  first,  that  not  the  poem  which  we  have  read,  but 
that  to  which  we  return,  with  the  greatest  pleasure,  pos- 
sesses the  genuine  power,  and  claims  the  name  of  essen- 
tial poetry.  Second,  that  whatever  lines  can  be  translated 
into  other  words  of  the  same  language  without  diminu- 
tion of  their  significance,  either  in  sense  or  association, 
or  in  any  worthy  feeling,  are  so  far  vicious  in  their  dic- 
tion Be  it,  however,  observed,  that  I  excluded  from  the 
list  of  worthy  feelings,  the  pleasure  derived  from  mere 
novelty,   in  the  reader,  and  the  desire  oi  exciting  won- 


17 

derment  at  his  powers  in  the  author.     Oftentimes  since 
then,  in  perusing  French  tragedies,  I  have  fancied   two 
marks  of  admiration  at   the  end  of  each  line,  as  hiero- 
glyphics of  the  author's  own  admiration  at  his  own  cle- 
verness.    Our  genuine  admiration  of  a  great  poet  is  a 
continuous  under-current  of  feeling  ;   it  is  every   where 
pre«-ent,  but  seldom  any  where  as  a  separate  excitement. 
I  was  wont  boldly  to  affirm,  that  it  would  be  scarcely  more 
difficult  lo  push  a  stone  out  from   the  pyramids  with  the 
bare  hand,  than  to  alter  a  word,  or  the  position  of  a  word, 
in  ^lilton  or  Shakspeare,  (in  their  most  important  works 
at  least,)  without  making  the  author  say  something  else, 
or  something  worse  than  he  does  say.     One  great  distinc- 
tion \    appeared   to  myself  to  see  plainly,  between  evea 
the  characteristic  t^aults  of  our  elder  poets,  and  the  false 
beauty  of  the  moderns.     In  the  former,  from  Dokne  to 
Cow^LEY,    we    find    the    most    fantastic    out-of-the-way 
thoughts,  but  in  the  most  pure  and  genuine  mother  Eng- 
lish ;   in  the  latter,  the  most  obvious  thoughts  in  langu^ige 
the  most  fantastic  and  arbitrary.     Our  faulty  elder  poets 
sacrificed  the  passion,  and   passionate  flow  of  poetry,  to 
the  subtleties  of  intellect,   ami   to  the  staits  of  wit;  the 
moderns  to  the  glare  and  glitter  of  a  perpetual,  yet   bro- 
ken and    heterogeneous  imagery,  or  rather  to  an  amphi- 
bious   something,   made   up   half  of  image,    and    halt   of 
abstract*    meaning.      The    one    sacrificed    the    heart  to 
tlie  head  ;  the   other   both  heart  and  head  to   point  and 
drapery. 

The  reader  must  make  himself  acquainted  with  the 
general  style  of  composition  that  was  at  that  time  deem- 
ed poetry,  in  order  to  understand  and  account  tor  the 
effect  produced  on  me  by  the  Sonnets,  the  IMonody  at 
MatlocK;  and  the  Hope,  of  Mr.  Bowles  ;  for  it  is  pecu- 
liar to  original  genius  to  become  less  and  less  striking^  in 
pioportion  to  its  success  in  improving  the  taste  and  judg- 
ment of  its  contemporaries.  The  poems  of  West,  indeed, 
bad  the  merit  of  chaste  and  manly  diction,  but  they  were 
cold,  and,  if  1  may  so  express  it,  only   dead-coloured ; 

*  I  remember  a  ludicrous  instance  in  the  poem  of  a  young  tradeSi 
man  : 

*'  No  more  will  I  endure  love's  pleasing  pain, 
Or  round  my  heart's  leg  tie  his  galling  chain." 

Vol.  I.  2 


18 

while  in  the  best  of  Warton's  there  is  a  stiffness,  which 
too  often  gives  them  the  appearance  of  imitations  from 
the  Greek.  Whatever  relation,  therefore,  of  cause  or 
impulse,  Percy's  collection  of  Ballads  may  bear  to  the 
most  popular  poems  of  the  present  day  ;  yet,  in  the  more 
sustained  and  elevated  style  of  the  then  living  poets, 
Bowles  and  Cowper*  were,  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge, 
the  first  who  combined  natural  thoughts  with  natural  dic- 
tion ;  the  first  who  reconciled  the  heart  with  the  head. 

It  is  true,  as  I  have  before  mentioned,  that  from  diffi- 
dence in  my  own  powers,!  for  a  short  time  adopted  a  labo- 
rious and  florid  diction,  which  I  myself  deemed,  if  not  ab- 
solutely vicious,  yet  of  very  inferior  worth.  Gradually, 
howerer,  my  practice  conformed  to  my  belter  judgment ; 
and  the  compositions  of  my  twenty-fourth  and  twenty-fifth 
year  {ex,  gr.  the  shorter  blank  verse  poems,  the  lines 
which  are  now  adopted  in  the  introductory  part  of  the 
Vision  in  the  present  collection  in  Mr.  Southey's  Joan  of 
Arc,  2nd  book,  1st  edition,  and  the  Tragedy  of  Remursf) 
are  not  more  below  my  present  ideal  in  respect  of  tlie 
general  tissue  of  the  style,  than  those  of  the  latest  date. 
Their  faults  were,  at  least,  a  remnant  of  the  former 
leaven,  and  among  the  many  who  have  done  me  the  ho- 
nour of  putting  my  poems  in  the  same  class  with  those  of 
my  betters,  the  one  or  two  who  have  pretended  to  bring 
examples  of  affected  simplicity  from  my  volume,  have 
been  able  to  adduce  but  one  instance,  and  that  out  of  a 
copy  of  verses  half  ludicrous,  half  splenetic,  which  I  in- 
tended, and  had  myself  characterized,  as  sermoni  propri- 
ora. 

Every  reform,  however  necessary,  will  by  weak  minds 
be  carried  to  an  excess,  that  itself  will  need  reforming. 
The  reader  will  excuse  me  for  noticing,  that  1  myself  was 
the  first  to  expose  rrsu  honesto  the  three  sins  of  poetry,  one 

*  Cowncr's  Task  was  published  some  time  before  the  sonnets  of  Mi'. 
Bowles  ;  but  I  was  not  familiar  witli  it  till  many  years  afterwards.  The 
vein  of  satire  which  runs  through  that  excellent  poem,  together  with  the 
sombre  hue  of  its  rol-gious  opinions,  would  probably,  ai  that  time,  huve 
prevented  its  laying  any  strong  hold  on  V'ly  atfections.  The  love  of  na- 
ture seems  to  have  led  Tb.omjison  to  a  cheerful  religion;  and  a  gloomy 
religion  to  have  led  Cowper  to  a  love  of  nature.  The  one  would  carry 
his  fellow-men  along  with  him  into  nature  ;  the  other  flips  to  nature  from 
his  fellow-men.  In  chastitv  of  diction,  however,  and  the  harmony  of 
blank  verse,  Cowper  leaves  Thompson  immeasurably  below  him  ;  yet  still 
i  feel  tlie  latter  ;lu  have  been  the  bonipoett 


19 

or  the  other  of  which  w  the  most  likely  to  beset  a  young 
writer.  So  long  ago  as  the  publication  of  the  second 
number  of  the  monthly  magazine,  under  the  name  of  Ne- 
HEMiAH  HiGGEXBOTTOM,  1  Contributed  three  sonnets,  the 
first  of  which  had  for  its  object  to  excite  a  good-natured 
laugh  at  the  spirit  of  doleful  egotism^  and  at  the  recur- 
rence of  favourite  phrases,  with  the  double  defect  of  be- 
ing at  once  trite  and  licentious.  The  second,  on  low, 
creeping  language  and  thoughts,  under  the  pretence  of 
simplicity.  And  the  third,  the  phrases  of  which  were 
borrowed  entirely  from  my  own  poems,  on  the  indis- 
criminate use  of  elaborate  and  swelling  language  and 
imagery.     The  reader  will  find  them  in  the  note*  below, 

*  Sonnet  I. 

Pensive  at  eve,  on  the  hard  world  I  mused, 

And  my  poor  heart  was  sad ;  so  at  the  Moon 

1  j^azed,  and  sighed,  and  sighed ;  for  ah,  how  SOOn 

Eve  saddens  into  night !  mine  eyes  perused 

With  tearful  vacancy  the  dampy  grass 

That  wept  and  glitter'd  in  the  paly  ray  : 

And  I  did  pause  me  on  my  lonely  way, 

And  mused  wie,  on  the  wretched  ones  that  pass 

O'er  the  bleak  heath  of  gorrow.     But  alas  t  '  • 

Most  of  myself  I  thought  I  when  it  lefel, 

That  the  soothe  spirit  of  the  breezy  wood 

Breath'd  in  mine  ear:  "  AH  this  is  very  well. 

But  much  of  ONE  thing,  i^  for  no  thing  good.*^ 

Oh  my  poor  heart's  iitEXPLicABLR  swell  I 

Sonnet  IL 

Oh  I  do  love  thee,  meek  Simplicity  ! 

For  of  thy  lays  the  lulling  simpleness 

Cjoes  to  my  heart,  and  soothes  each  small  distress^ 

Distress  tho'  small,  vet  haply  great  to  me  ; 

'Tis  true,  on  Lady  Fortune's  gentlest  pad 

J  amble  on  ;  and  yet  I  know  not  why 

So  sad  1  am  I  but  should  a  friend  and  I 

Frown,  pout  and  pari,  then  I  am  very  sad. 

And  then  with  sonnets  and  with   sympathy  : 

My  dreamy  bosom's  mvstic  woes  I  pall ; 

IVow  of  my  false  friend  plaining  plaintively. 

Now  raving  at  mankind  in  general ; 

But  whether  sad  or  fierce,  'tis  simple  all, 

All  very  simple,  meek  Simplicity  I 

Sonnet  IIL  ' 

And  this  reft  house  is  that,  the  which  heS  uil«, 
Lamented  Jack  !  and  here  his  malt  he  pil'd, 
Cautious  in  vain  !  these  rats,  that  squeak  so  wild, 
bcjueak  not  unconscious  of  their  father's  guilt. 
Did  he  not  see  her  gleaming  thro'  the  glade ! 
Belike  'twas  she,  the  maideaall  forlorn. 


20 

and  will,  I  trust,  regard  tliera  as  reprinted  for  biogiaphicai 
pu  rposes.  and  not  for  their  poetic  merits.  So  general  at 
th  at  time  and  so  decided  was  tiie  opinion  concerning  ihe 
cbaraclerigtic  vices  of  my  style,  that  a  celebrated  physi- 
cian (now,  alas!  no  more)  speaking  of  me,  in  othftr  re- 
spects, with  his  usual  kindness,  to  a  gentleman,  who  was 
about  to  meet  me  at  a  dinner  party,  could  not,  however, 
resist  giving  him  a  hint  not  to  mention  the  '"House  thai 
Jack  builV  in  my  presence  for  ''  that  1  was  as  sore  as  a 
bile  about  that  sonnet  ;"  he  not  knowing  that  I  was,  my- 
self, the  author  of  it. 

What  tho'  she  milk  no  cow  mth  crumpled  horn, 
Yet,  aye  she  haunts  the  dalp  where  erst  ^he  strayM  : 
And  aye,  beside  h©r  stalks  her  amorous  knight! 
Still  on  his  thighs  their  wonted  brogues  are  worn, 
And  thro'  those  brogues,  still  tatter'd  and  betorn, 
His  hindward  charms  gleam  an  unearthly  white. 
Ah  !  thus  thro'  broken  clouds  at  night's  high  IVoon 
Peeps  in  fair  fragments  forth  the  full  orb'd  harvest  moon  I 

The  following  anecdote  t>  ill  not  be  v,^hoIly  out  of  place  here,  and  maj', 
perhaps,  amuse  the  reader.  iJi  -mateur  performer  in  verse  expressed 
10  a  common  friend,  a  strong  desire  to  be  introduced  to  kie,  but  hesitated 
in  accepting  my  friend's  immediate  offer,  on  the  score  that  "  he  was,  he 
must  acknowledge,  the  author  of  a  confounded  severe  epigram  on  my 
ancient  mariner j  which  had  given  me  great  pain."  I  assured  my  friend 
that  if  the  epigram  was  a  good  one,  it  would  only  increase  my  desire  to 
become  acquainted  with  the  author,  and  begg'd  to  hear  it  recited  :  when, 
to  my  no  less  surprise  than  amusement,  it  proved  to  be  one  which  1  had 
myself  some  time  before  written  and  inserted  in  the  Morning  Post. 

To  the  Author  of  the  Ancient  Mariner, 

Your  poem  must  eternal  be, 
Dear  sir .'  it  cannot  fail, 
For  'tis  incomprehensible 
And  without  head  or  tail. 


2^1 


CHAPTER  ir. 

Supposed  Irritability  of  men  of  Genius — Brought  to  the 
test  of  Facts — Causes  and  Occasions  of  the  charge — Its 
Injustice. 

I  have  often  thought,  that  it  would  be  neither  uninstruc- 
tive  nor  unamusing.,  to  analyze  and  bring  forward  into 
distinct  consciousness,  that  complex  feeling,  with  which 
readers  in  general  take  part  against  the  author-  in  favour 
of  the  critic  ;  and  the  readiness  with  which  they  apply  to 
all  poets  the  old  sarcasm  of  Horace  upon  the  scribblers 
of  his  time,  *'  Genus  irritabile  vatum."  A  debility  and 
dimness  of  the  imaginative  power,  and  a  consequent  ne- 
cessity of  reliance  on.  the  immediate  impressions  of  the 
senses,  do,  we  well  know,  render  the  mind  liable  to  su- 
perstition and  fanaticism.  Having  a  deficient  portion  of 
internal  and  proper  warmth,  minds  of  this  class  seek  in 
the  crowd  circuni  fana  for  a  warmth  in  common,  which 
they  do  not  possess  singly.  Cold  and  phlegmatic  in  their 
own  nature,  like  damp  hay,  they  heat  and  inflame,  by 
coacervation  ;  or,  like  bees,  they  become  restless  and  ir- 
ritable through  the  increased  temperature  of  collected 
multitudes.  Hence  the  German  word  for  fanaticism  (such 
at  least  was  iis  original  import)  is  derived  from  the 
swarming  of  bees,  namely,  Schwarmen,  Schwiirmerey. 
The  passion  being  in  an  inverse  proportion  to  the  insightj 
that  the  nQore  vivid  as  this  the  less  distinct,  anger  is  the 
inevitable  consequence.  The  absence  of  all  foundation 
within  their  own  minds  for  that  which  they  yet  believe 
both  true  and  indispensable  for  their  safety  and  happiness, 
cannot  but  produce  an  uneasy  stat^  of  feeling,  an  involuOf- 
tary  sense  of  faar,  from  which  nature  has  no  means  of  res- 
cuing herself  but  by  anger  Experience  informs  us,  that 
the  lirst  defence  of  weak  minds  is  to  recriminatCc 

"  There's  no  Philosopher  but  sees, 
That  rage  and  fear  are  one  disease ; 
Tho'  that  may  burn,  and  this  may  treeze,^ 
They're  both  alike  the  ague.'* 

Mad  Ox, 
2*^ 


22 

feut  where  the  ideas  are  vivid,  and  there  exists  an  endless 
power  of  combining  and  naodifying  them,  the  feelings  and 
affections  blend  more   easily  and  intimately   with  these 
ideal  creations,  than  with  the  objects  of  ihe  senses  ;   the 
mind  is  affected  by  thoughts,  rather  than  by  things;  and 
only  then  feels  the  requisite  interest,  even  for  the  most  im- 
portant events  and  accidents,  when  by  means  of  medita- 
tion they   have  passed  into  thoughts.      The  sanity  of  the 
mind  is  between  superstition  with  fanaticism  on   the  one 
hand,  and  enthusiasm  with   indifference  and  a   diseased 
slowness  to  action  on  the  other.     For  the  conceptions  of 
the  mind  may  be  so  vivid  and  adequate  as  to  preclude 
that  impulse  to  the  realizing  of  them,  which  is  strongest 
and   most  restless   in  those  who  possess  more  than  mere 
talent,  (or  the  faculty  of  appropriating  and  applying  the 
knowledge  of  others,)   yet  still   want  something  of  the 
creative  and  self-sufficing  power  of  cibsolute  genius.     For 
this  reason,  therefore,   they  are  men  of  commanding  ge- 
nius.    While  the  former  rest  content  between  thought  and 
reality,  as  it  were  in  an  intermundium,  of  which  their  own 
living  spirit  supplies  the  substance,  and  their  imagination 
the  ever  varyingybrm;  the  latter  must  impress  their  pre- 
conceptions  on  the   world   without,  in   order  to  present 
them  back  to  their  own  view  with  the  satisfying  degree 
of  clearness,  distinctness,  and  individuality       These,  in 
tranquil  times,  are   formed  to  exhibit  a   perfect  poem   in 
palace,  or  temple,  or  landscape-garden  •   or  a  tale  of  ro- 
mance in  canals  that  join  sea  with  sea,  or  in  walls  of  rock, 
which,  shouldering   back  the  billows,  imitate  the  power, 
and  supply  the  benevolence  of  nature  to  sheltered  navies  ; 
or  in  aqueducts,  that,  arching  the  wide  vale  from  mountain 
to  mountain,  give  a  Palmyra  to  the   desert.      But,  alas  ! 
in  times  of  tumult,  they  are  the   men   destined  to  come 
forth   as  the   shaping  spirit  of  Ruin,  to  destroy  the   wis- 
dom of  ages,  in  order  to  substitute  the  fancies  of  a  day, 
and  to  change  kings  and  kingdoms,  as  the  wind  shifts  and 
shapes  the  clouds.'^     The  records  of  biography  seem  to 


'  "  Of  old  things  all  are  over  okl, 
Of  ^ood  things  none  are  good  enough  : — 
We'll  show  that  we  can  help  to  frame 
A  world  of  other  stuft 


23 

confirm  this  theory.  The  men  of  the  greatest  genius,  as 
far  as  we  can  judge  from  their  own  works,  or  from  the  ac- 
counts of  their  contempornries,  appear  to  have  been  of 
calm  and  tranquil  temper  in  aM  that  related  to  themselves. 
In  the  inward  assurarice  of  permanent  fame,  they  seem 
to  have  been  either  indifferent  or  resigned  with  regard  to 
immediate  reputation.  Through  all  the  works  of  Chau- 
cer there  reigns  a  cheerfulness,  a  manly  hilarity,  which 
makes  it  almost  impossible  to  doubt  a  correspondent  ha- 
bit of  feeling  in  the  author  himself.  Shakspeare's  even- 
ness and  sweetness  of  temper  were  almost  proverbial  in 
bis  own  age.  That  this  did  not  arise  from  ignorance  of 
his  own  comparative  greatness,  we  have  abundant  proof 
in  his  sonnets,  which  could  scarcely  have  been  known 
to  Mr.  Pope,*  when  he  asserted,  that  our  great  bard 
'•  grew  immortal  in  his  own  despite  "  Speaking  of  one 
whom  he  had  celebrated,  and  contrasting  the  duration  of 
his  works  with  that  of  his  personal  existence,  Shakspeare 
adds  : 


•  I  too  will  havo  1113-  kino;*,  t'lat  take 
From  me  the  sign  of  lite  and  death ; 
Kingdoms  shall  shilt  about  like  clouds, 
Obedient  to  my  breath." 

WoRDSWORTH^S  ROB  RoY- 

*  Mr.  Pope  was  under  the  common  error  of  his  age,  an  error  far  from 
being  sufficiently  exploded  even  at  the  preisent  day.  It  consists,  (as  I  ex- 
plained at  lar2:e,  and  proved  in  detail  inmy  public  lectures.)  in  mistaking 
lor  the  essentials  of  tfie  Greek  stage,  certain  rules  which  the  wise  poets 
imposed  upon  themselves,  in  order  to  render  all  the  remaining  parts  of 
the  drama  consisient  with  those  that  }\ad  been  forced  upon  tliein  by  cir- 
cumstances independent  of  their  will  ;  out  of  which  circumstances  the 
drama  itself  arose.  The  circmnstances  in  the  time  of  Shakspeare,  which 
it  was  equally  one  of  his  jjo\ver  to  alter,  were  different,  and  such  as,  in  my 
opinion,  allowed  a  far  wider  sphere,  and  a  deeper  and  more  human  in- 
terest. Critics  are  too  apt  to  forget  that  rnks  are  but  means  to  an  end, 
consequently,  where  the  ends  are  diftV  rent,  the  rules  must  be  likewise  so. 
We  must  have  rscertained  what  the  end  is  before  we  can  determine  what 
the  rules  might  :o  he.  Judging  under  this  impression,  I  did  not  hesitate 
to  declare  my  full  conviction  that  tiie  consummate  judoinent  of  Shaks- 
peare, not  only  in  the  general  construction,  butinall'thede^ii'Z  of  his  dra- 
mas, impressed  me  with  greater  wonder  than  even  the  might  of  his  ge- 
nius, or  the  depth  of  his  philosophy.  The  substance  of  these  lectures  I 
hope  soon  to  publish  ;  and  it  is  but  a  debt  of  I'ustice  to  mvself  and  my 
friends  to  notice^  that  the  first  <  ourse  of  lectures,  whicji  dirfered  from  the 
following  courses  only  by  occasionally  varying  the  illustratioiis  of  the 
sam?  thoughts,  was  addressed  to  very  numerous,  and,  I  need  not  add,  re- 
spectablr^  audiences,  at  the  royal  institution,  before  Mr.  Schlegel  gave  his 
lectures  on  the  same  subjects  at  Vienna, 


24 

**  Your  name  from  hence  immortal  life  shall  have, 
Tho'  I  once  gone  to  all  the  world  must  die  ; 
The  earth  can  }  ield  me  but  a  common  grave, 
When  you  entombed  in  men's  eyes  shall  lie. 
Your  monument  shall  be  my  gentle  verse, 
Which  eyes  not  yet  created  shall  o'er-read  ; 
And  tongues  to  be  your  being  shall  rehearse, 
When  all  the  breathers  of  this  world  are  dead  : 
You  still  shall  live,  such  virtue  hath  my  pen, 
Where  breath  most  breathes,  e'en  in  the  mouth  of  men.'*^ 

Sonnet  8 1st. 

I  have  taken  the  first  that  occurred  ;  but  Shakspeare's 
readiness  to  praise  his  rivals,  ore  pleno,  and  the  confi- 
dence of  his  own  equality  with  those  whom  he  deem'd 
most  worthy  of  his  praise,  are  alike  manifested  in  the 
S6.ih  sonnet. 

*' Was  it  the  proud  full  sail  of  his  great  verse^ 
i         Bound  for  the  praise  of  ail-too  precious  you, 

That  did  my  ripe  thoughts  in  my  brain  inhearse, 
Making  their  tomb  the  womb  wherein  they  grew  ? 
Was  it  his  spirit,  by  spirits  taught  to  write 
Above  a  mortal  pitch  that  struck  me  dead  r 
No,  neitiier  he,  nor  his  compeers  by  night 
Giving  him  aid,  my  verse  astonished. 
He,  nor  that  affable  familiar  ghost, 
VVliich  nightly  gulls  him  with  intelligence. 
As  victors  of  my  silence  cannot  boast; 
I  was  not  sick  of  any  fear  from  thence  ! 
But  when  your  countenance  fiU'd  up  his  line, 
Then  UckM  I  matter,  that  enfeebled  mine. 

In  Spencer,  indeed,  we  (race  a  mind  constitutionally 
tender,  delicate,  and,  in  comparison  with  his  three  great 
compeers,  [  had  almost  said,  effeminate  ;  and  this  addi- 
tionally saddened  by  the  unjust  persecution  of  Burleigb,^ 
and  the  severe  calamities  which  overwhelmed  his  latter 
days.  These  causes  have  diffused  over  all  his  composi- 
tions **  a  melancholy  grace,''  and  have  drawn  forth  occa-, 
sional  strains,  the  more  pathetic  from  their  gentleness. 
But  no  vvbere  do  we  find  the  least  trace  of  irritability, 
and  still  less  of  quarrelsome  or  afifected  contempt  of  his 
censurers. 

The  same  calmness,  and  even  greater  self  possession, 
may  ]^e  affirmed  of  MiltOD,  as  far  as  his  poems  and  poetic 


25 

charac(er  are  concerned.  He  reserved  his  anger  lor 
Ihe  enemies  of  religion,  freedom,  and  his  country.  My 
mind  is  not  capable  of  forming  a  more  august  conception, 
than  arises  from  the  contemplation  of  this  great  man  in 
his  latter  days  :  poor,  sick,  old,  blind,  slandered,  perse- 
cuted, 

**  Darkness  before,  and  dang-er's  voice  behind," 

in  an  age  in  which  he  was  as  little  understood  by  the 
party,  for  whom,  as  by  that  against  whom,  he  had  con- 
tended ;  and  among  men  before  whom  he  strode  so  far  as 
to  cZccar/ himself  by  the  distance  ;  yet  still  listening  to 
the  music  of  his  own  thoughts,  or  if  additionally  cheered, 
yet  cheered  only  by  the  prophetic  faith  of  two  or  three 
solitary  individuals,  he  did  nevertheless 


"  Argue  not 


Against  Heaven's  hand  or  will,  nor  bate  a  jot 
Of  heart  or  hope  ;  but  still  bore  up,  and  steer'd 
Right  onward." 

From  others  only  do  we  derive  our  knowledge  that  Mil- 
ton, in  his  latter  day,  had  his  scorners  and  detractors  ; 
and  even  in  his  day  of  youth  and  hope,  that  he  had  ene- 
mies would  have  been  unknown  to  us,  had  they  not  been 
likewise  the  enemies  of  his  country. 

I  am  well  aware,  that  in  advanced  stages  of  literature, 
when  there  exists  many  and  excellent  models,  a  high  de- 
gree of  talent,  combined  with  taste  and  judgment,  and 
employed  in  works  of  imagination,  will  acquire  for  a  man 
the  name  of  a  great  genius  ;  though  even  that  analogon  of 
genius,  which,  in  certain  states  of  society,  may  even 
render  his  writings  more  popular  than  the  absolute  reali- 
ty could  have  done,  would  be  sought  for  in  vain  in  the 
mind  and  temper  of  the  author  himself  Yet  even  in  in- 
stances of  this  kind,  a  close  examination  will  often  detect 
that  the  irritability,  which  has  been  attributed  to  the  au- 
thor's genius  as  its  cause,  did  really  originate  in  un  ill 
conformation  of  body,  obtuse  pain,  or  const! iUtionhi  de- 
fect of  pleasurable  sensation.  What  is  cl<arged  (o  the 
avtlior^  beloui^s  to  the  man,  who  wotjld  pivh^^biy  have 
been  still  more  impatient,  but  for  the  humanizing   influ- 


26 

cnces  of  the  very  pursuit,  which  yet  bears  the  blame  of  his 
irritability. 

How  then  are  we  to  explain  the  easy  credence  gene- 
rally given  to  this  charge,  if  the  charge  itself  be  not,  as 
we  have  endeavoured  to  show,  supported  by  experience  ? 
This  seems  to  me  of  no  very  difficult  solution.  In  what- 
ever country  literature  is  widely  diffused,  there  will  be 
many  who  mistake  an  intense  desire  to  possess  the 
reputation  of  poetic  genius,  for  the  actual  powers, 
and  origiucil  tendencies  which  constitute  it.  But  men, 
whose  dearest  wishes  are  fixed  on  objects  wholly  out 
of  their  own  power,  l)ecome  in  all  cases  more  or  less 
impatient  and  prone  to  anger.  Besides,  though  it  may 
be  paradoxical  to  assert,  that  a  man  can  know  one 
thing,  and  believe  the  opposite,  yet  assuredly,  a  vain  per- 
son may  have  so  habitually  indulged  the  wish,  and  perse- 
vered in  the  attempt  to  appear  what  he  is  not,  as  to  be- 
come himself  one  of  his  own  proselytes.  Still,  as  this 
counterfeit  and  artificial  persuasion  must  differ,  even  in 
the  person's  own  feelings,  from  a  real  sense  of  inward 
power,  what  can  be  more  natural  than  that  this  difference 
should  betray  itself  in  suspicious  and  jealous  irritability  ? 
Even  as  the  flowery  sod,  which  covers  a  hollow,  may  be 
often  detected  by  its  shaking  and  trembling. 

But,  alas  I  the  multitude  of  books,  and  the  general  dif- 
fusion of  literature,  have  produced  other  and  more  la- 
mentable effects  in  the  world  of  letters,^  and  such  as  are 
abundant  to  explain,  though  by  no  means  to  justify,  the  con- 
ipei^pt  with  which  the  best  grounded  complaints  of  injured 
genius  are  rejected  as  frivolous,  or  entertained  as  matter 
of  merriment-  in  the  days  of  Chaucer  and  Govver,  our 
language  might  (wi'th  due  allowance  for  the  imperfections 
of  a  simile)  be  compared  to  a  wilderness  of  vocal  reeds^ 
from  which  the  favourites  only  of  Fan  or  Apollo  could  con- 
struct even  the  rude  Syrinx  ;  and  from  this  the  construc- 
tors alone  could  elicit  strains  of  music.  But  now,  partly 
by  the  labours  of  successive  poets,  and  in  part  by  the 
more  artificial  state  of  society  and  social  intercourse, 
language,  mechanized  as  it  were  into  a  barrel-organ,  sup- 
plies at  once  both  instrument  and  tune.  Thus  even  the 
deaf  may  play,  so  as  to  delight  the  many.  Sometimes^ 
(for  it  is  with  similies  as  it  is  with  jests  at  a  wine  table, 
Qne  is  sure  to  suggest  another,)  1  have  attempted  to  illus- 


27 

trate  the  present  state  of  our  language,  in  its  relation  to 
literature,  h^  a  press-room  of  larger  and  smaller  stereo- 
type pieces,  Hhich,  in  the  present  anglo-gallican  fashion 
of  unconnected,  epigrammatic  periods,  it  requires  but  an 
ordinary  portion  of  ingenuity  to  vary  indefinitely,  and  yet 
still  produce  something,  which,  if  not  sense,  will  be  so 
like  it  as  to  do  as  well.  Perhaps  better';  for  it  spares 
the  reader  the  trouble  of  thinking  ;  prevents  vacancy, 
while  it  indulges  indolence  ;  and  secures  the  memory 
from  all  danger  of  an  intellectual  plethora.  Hence,  of  all 
trades,  literature  at  present  demands  the  least  talent  or 
information  ;  and,  of  all  modes  of  literature,  the  manu- 
facturing of  poems.  The  difference,  indeed,  between  these 
and  the  works  of  genius,  is  not  less  than  between  an  egg 
and  an  egg-shell  ;  yet  at  a  distance  they  both  look  alike. 
Now  it  is  no  less  remarkable  than  true,  wiih  how  little 
examination  works  of  polite  literature  are  commonly  pe- 
rused, not  only  by  the  mass  of  readers,  but  by  men  of 
first  rate  ability,  till  some  accident  or  chance*  discussion 

*  In  the  course  of  my  lectures,  I  had  occasion  to  point  out  the  almost 
faultless  position  and  choice  of  words,  in  Mr.  Pope's  on'^ma/ composi- 
tions, particularly  in  his  satires  and  moral  essays,  for  the  purpose  of 
comparing  them  Avith  his  translation  of  Homer,'  which  I  do  not  stand 
alone  in  regarding-  as  the  main  source  of  our  pseudo-poetic  diction.  And 
this,  by-the-by,  is  an  additional  confirmation  of  a  remark  made,  I  believe, 
bv  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  that  next  to  the  man  who  formed  and  elevated 
tfie  taste  of  the  public,  he  that  corrupted  it  is  commonly  the  greatest 
genius.  Among  other  passages,  I  analyzed,  sentence  by  sentence,  and 
ahnost  word  by  word,  tne  popular  lines, 

"  As  when  the  moon,  resplendent  lamp  of  light,"  Sfc, 

much  in  the  same  way  as  has  been  since  done,  in  an  excellent  article  on 
Chalmer's  British  Poets,  in  the  Quarterly  Review.  The  impression  on  the 
audience,  in  general,  was  sudden  and  evident:  and  a  number  of  enlight- 
ened and  highly  educated  individuals,  who  at  different  times  afterwards 
addressed  me  on  the  subject,  '-"^pressed  their  wonder,  that  truth  so  obvi- 
ous should  not  have  struck  them  bifore  ;  but  at  the  same  time  acknow- 
ledged (so  much  had  they  been  accustomed,  in  reading  poetry,  to  receive 
pleasure  from  the  separate  images  and  phrases  successively,  without  ask- 
ing themselves  whether  the  collective  meaning  was  sense  or  nonsense,) 
th'dt  they  might  in  all  probability  have  read  the  same  passage  again 
twenty  times  with  undiininished  admiration,  and  without  once  reilccting, 
that  '^ajja  (pOfiVTiv  a|i(pi  o-tXnvr.v  (paivrr*  of  i/rffTria*'  (i.  e.  the  stars  around, 
or  near  the  full  moon,  shine  pre-eminently  bright)  ^conveys  a  just  and  hap- 
py ima^e  of  a  moonlight  sky  ;  while  it  is  difficult  to  determine  whether 
m  the  lines, 

"  Around  her  throne  the  vivid  planets  roliy 
A:id  stars  unnumber''d  gild  the  ghwing  pgU^^^' 


28 

have  roused  their  attention,  and  put  them  on  their  guard. 
And  hence  iii«iividuals  helow  mediocrity  not  less  in  n:;tu- 
ral  power  than  in  acquired  knowledge  ;  nay,  bunglers 
that  hdd  failed  in  ihi;  lowest  mechanic  cratt^,  and  who-e 
presurjjpti()n  is  in  due  proportion  to  their  want  of  sense 
and  sensibility  ;  men,  who  hemg  first  scribblers  from  idle- 
ness and  ignorance,  next  become  libellers  from  envy  and 
malevolence,  have  been  able  to  drive  a  successful  trade 
in  ihe  employment  of  booksellers,  nay,  have  raised  them- 
selves into  temporary  name  and  reputation  with  the  pub- 
lic at  large,  by  that  most  powerful  of  all  adulation,  the 
appeal  to  the  bad  and  malignant  passions  of  mankind.* 
But  as  it  is  the  nature  of  scorn,  envy,  and  all  malignant 
propensities,  to  require  a  quick  change  of  objects,  such 
writers  are  sure,  sooner  or  later,  to  awake  from  their  dream 

the  s-^nse  or  the  diction  1-»e  the  more  absurd.  M}'  answer  was,  that  though 
i  ha-i  d  -rived  pecuhar  advanta^^es  from  mv  school  discipline,  and  though  my 
gen>iral  theory  of  |3oetry  v.-as  the  same  then  as  now,  !  nad  yet  exp-^rienced 
the  same  sensations  myself,  and  fait  almost  as  if  I  had  been  newly  <  ouch- 
ed,  when  by  Mr.  U'ordswoilh's  conversation,  I  had  been  induced  to  re- 
examine with  impartial  stri<  tness  Graves  celebrated  elegy.  I  had  long 
before  detected  the  defects  in  "the  Pard;"  but  "the  Elegy"  I  bad  con- 
sidered as  proof  ao-ainst  all  fair  attacks ;  and  to  this  da\  I  cannot  read 
either  M'ithout  delisht,  and  a  portion  of  enthusiasm.  At  all  events, 
whatever  pleasure  I  may  have  lost  b;,  the  clearer  perception  of  the  faults  " 
in  certain  passasres,  has  been  more  than  repaid  to  me,  by  the  additional 
delisrht  with  which  I  read  the  reniainder. 

*  Especially  "  in  this  age  of  personality,  this  a^e  of  literary  and  po- 
htical  GOSSIPING,  when  the  meanest  insects  are  worsnipped  with  a  sort  of 
Esryptian  superstition,  if  only  the  brainless  head  be  atoned  for  by  the  sting- 
of  personal  malignity  in  the  tail  !  When  the  most  vapid  satires  have  be- 
come the  objects  of"  a  keen  public  interest,  purely  from  the  number  of 
contemporary  characters  named  in  the  patchwork  notes,  (which  possess, 
however,  the  comparative  merit  of  l)eing  more  poetical  than  the  text,)  and 
because,  to  increase  the  stimulus,  the  author  has  sagaciously  left  his  own 
name  for  whispers  and  conjectures  I  In  an  aae,  when  even  sermons  are 
published  with  a  double  appendix  stuiled  witli  names — in  a  generation  so 
iiansformed  from  the  characteristic  reserve  of  Britons,  that  from  the 
ephemeral  sheet  of  a  London  newspaper,  to  the  everlasting  Scotch  Pro- 
fessorial Quarto,  almost  every  publication  exhibits  or  flatters  the  epidemic 
di.stemper:  that  the  very  *  last  year's  rebuses'  in  the  Ladies'  Diary,  are 
answered  in  a  serious  elegy  '  on  my  father'*s  death'  wiih  the  name  and 
habit:it  of  the  elegiac  CRdipus  subscribed  :  and  '  other  ingeniovs  solutions  were 
lik(ni<ie  given''  to  the  stiid  rebvsc-- — not,  as  heretofore,  by  Crito,  Philander, 
A.  B  Ys  6ic.  bu*  b^  fifty  or  sixty  plain  English  surnames  at  full  length, 
with  thtir  several  places  of  abode!  In  an  age,  when  a  bashful  Fhila- 
lefhes,  or  Philele^dheros  is  as  rare  on  the  title-pages,  and  smong  the  signa- 
tures o^  our  magazines,  as  a  real  name  used  to  be  in  the  days  of  our  shy 
and  notice-shunning  grandfathers!  When  (more  exquisite  than  all)  I  see 
an  Epic  Poem  (spirits  of  Maro  and  Ma-onidcs  make  ready  to  v.elcome 
your  new  compeer !)  adveitised  witli  the  special  rec  onimendiition,  that  the 
'said  Epic  Poem  contains  more  thaii  an  hundred  names  of  hving  persons." 

FrIIND,  ^(0.  10. 


29 

of  vanity  to  disappointment  and  neglect  with  embittered 
and  envenomed  feelings.  Even  during  tiieir  short-lived 
success,  sensible,  in  spite  of  themselves,  on  what  a  shift- 
ing foundation  it  rested,  they  resent  the  mere  refusal  of 
praise,  as  a  robbery,  and  at  the  justest  censures  kindle  at 
once  into  violent  and  undisciplined  abuse  ;  till  the  acute 
disease  changing  into  chronical,  the  more  deadly  as  the 
less  violent,  they  become  the  fit  instruments  of  literary 
detraction,  and  moral  slander.  They  are  then  no  longer 
to  be  questioned  without  exposing  the  complamant  to  ri- 
dicule, because,  forsooth,  they  are  anonymous  critics,  and 
authorized  as  ''  synodical  individuals"*  to  speak  of  them» 
selves  plurali  majestatico  !  As  if  literature  formed  a  cast, 
like  that  of  the  paras  in  Hindostan,  who,  however  mal- 
treated, must  not  dare  to  deem  themselves  wronged  !  As 
if  that,  which  in  all  other  cases  adds  a  deeper  die  to  slan- 
der, the  circumstance  of  its  being  anonymous,  here  acted 
only  to  make  the  slanderer  inviolable  !  Thus,  in  part^ 
from  the  accidental  tempers  of  individuals,  (men  of  un- 
doubted talent,  but  not  men  of  genius,)  tempers  rendered 
yet  more  irritable  by  their  desire  to  appear  men  of  ge- 
nius ;  but  still  more  eftectively  by  the  excesses  of  the 
mere  counterfeits  both  of  talent  and  genius;  the  number 
too  being  so  incomparably  greater  of  those  who  are 
thought  to  be,  tlian  of  those  who  really  are^  men  of  real 
genius  ;  and  in  part  from  the  natural,  but  not  therefore 
the  less  partial  and  unjust  distinction,  made  by  the  public 
itself  between  literary  and  all  other  property  ;  I  believe 
the  prejudice  to  have  arisen,  which  considers  an  unusual 
irascibility  concerning  the  reception  of  its  products  as 
characteristic  of  genius,  it  miiiht  correct  the  moral  feel- 
ings of  a  numerous  class  of  readers,  to  suppose  a  review 
set  on  fo^'t,  the  object  of  which  was  to  criticise  all  the 
chief  works  presented  to  the  public  by  our  ribbon-weavers^ 
calico-printers,  cabinet-makers,  and  chlna-manuf;ictureib  ; 
a  review  conducted  in  the  same  spirit,  and  which  should 
take  the  same  freedom  with  personal  character,  as  our  li- 
terary journals.  They  would  scarcely.  1  think,  deny 
their  belief,  not  only  that  the  "'  g^nus  irritabile"  would 
be  found  to  include  many  other  species  beside  that  of 
bards,   but   that   the  irritability  of  trade   would  soon  re* 

*  A  plirase  of  Andrew  Marv^rsv 

V^OL.  L  3 


30 

(luce  tlie  resentments  of  poets  into  mere  shadow-fights 
(axio^axiaj)  in  the  comparison.  Or  is  wealth  the  only  ra- 
tional object  of  human  interest?  Or  even  if  this  were  ad- 
mitted, has  the  poet  no  property  in  his  works  ?  Or  is  it  a 
rare  or  culpable  case,  that  he  who  serves  at  the  altar  of 
the  muses,  should  be  compelled  to  derive  his  maintenance 
from  the  altar,  when,  too,  he  has  perhaps  deliberately 
•abandoned  the  fairest  prospects  of  rank  and  opulence  in 
order  to  devote  himself,  an  entire  and  undistracted  man, 
to  the  instruction  or  refinement  of  his  fellow-citizens  ? 
Or  should  we  pass  by  all  higher  objects  and  motives,  all 
disinterested  benevolence,  and  even  that  ambition  of  last- 
ing praise,  which  is  at  once  the  crutch  and  ornament,  which 
at  once  supports  and  betrays  the  infirmity  of  human  vir- 
tue ;  is  the  character  and  property  of  the  individual,  who 
labours  for  our  intellectual  pleasures,  less  entitled  to  a 
share  of  our  fellow  feeling,  than  that  of  the  wine-merchant 
or  milliner?  Sensibility,  indeed^  both  quick  and  deep,  is 
not  only  a  characteristic  feature,  but  may  be  deemed  a 
component  part  ot  genius.  But  it  is  no  less  an  essential 
mark  of  true  genius,  tliat  its  sensibility  is  excited  by  any 
ether  cause  more  powerfully  than  by  its  own  personal 
interests  ;  for  this  plain  reason,  that  the  man  of  genius 
lives  most  in  the  ideal  world,  in  which  the  present  is  still 
constituted  by  the  future  or  the  past  ;  and  because  his 
feelings  have  been  habitually  associated  with  thoughts  and 
images,  to  the  number,  clearness,  and  vivacity  of  which 
the  sensation  of  self  is  always  in  an  inverse  proportion. 
And  yet,  should  he  perchance  have  occasion  to  repel  some 
false  charge,  or  to  rectify  some  erroneous  censure,  nothing 
is  more  common,  than  for  the  many  to  mistake  the  gene- 
ral liveliness  of  iiis  manner  and  language,  -whatever  is  the 
subject,  for  the  effects  of  peculiar  irritation  from  its  acci- 
dental relation  tc  himself.* 

*  This  i>one  instance,  among  rnfiny,  of  deception,  by  the  telling  the  half 
of  a  fact,  and  omitting  the  otlier  half,  when  it  is  from  their  mutual  coun- 
teraction and  neutralization,  that  the  7vh(jle  truth  arises,  as  a  tertiam  ali- 
qjiid  ditTerent  from  either.  Thus  in  Drydc-n's  famous  line  "  Great  wit" 
(\vhich  here  means  genius)  "  to  madness  sure  is  near  allied."  i\ow,  as 
far  as  the  profound  sensibilitv,  which  is  doubtless  one  of  the  components 
of  genius,  were  alone  considered,  single  and  unbalanced,  it  might  be  fair- 
Iv  described  as  exposing  the  individual  to  a  great.^r  chance  of  mental  de- 
raii2:emint ;  h\\{  tnen  a  more  than  usual  rapidity  of  association,  a  more 
than  usual  power  of  passing  from  thought  to  thought,  and  image  toiinage, 
is  a  c  omponent  equally  essential ;  and  in  the  due  modification  of  each  by 
?he  other  the  qe.mus  itself  consists;   so  that  it  would  be  just  a^  fair  to 


31 

For  myself,  if  from  my  own  feelings,  or  from  the  \es& 
suspicious  test  of  the  observations  of  others,  1  had  been 
made  aware  of  any  literary  testiness  or  jealousy,  I  trust, 
that  I  should  have  been,  however,  neither  silly  or  arro* 
gant  enough  to  have  burthened  the  imperfection  on  genius. 
But  an  experience,  (and  1  should  not  need  documents  in 
abundance  to  prove  my  words,  if  1  added,)  a  tried  expe- 
rience of  twenty  years  has  taught  me  thai  the  original  sin 
of  my  character  consists  in  a  careless  indifference  to  pub- 
lic opinion,  and  to  the  attacks  of  those  who  influence  it ; 
that  praise  and  admiration  have  become,  yearly,  less  and 
less  desirable,  except  as  marks  of  sympathy  ;  nay,  that  it 
is  difficult  and  distressing  to  me,  to  think  with  any  inter-^ 
est  even  about  the  sale  and  profit  of  my  works,  important 
as,  in  my  present  circumstances,  such  considerations  must 
needs  be.  Yet  it  never  occurred  to  me  to  believe,  or  fan- 
cy, that  the  quantum  of  intellectual  power  bestowed  on 
me  by  nature  or  education  was  in  any  way  connected 
with  this  habit  of  my  feelings  ;  or,  that  it  needed  any- 
other  parents,  or  fosterers,  than  constitutional  indolence^ 
aggravated  into  languor  by  ill-health  ;  the  accumulating 
embarrassments  of  procrastination  ;  the  mental  cowardice, 
which  is  the  inseparable  companion  of  procrastination, 
and  which  makes  us  anxious  to  think  and  converse  on 
any  thing  rather  than  on  what  concerns  ourselves  :  in 
fine,  all  those  close  vexations,  whether  chargeable  on  my 
faults  or  my  fortunes  which  leave  me  but  little  grief  to 
spare  for  evils  comparatively  distant  and  alien. 

Indignation  at  literary  wrongs,  1  leave  to  men  borrt 
under  happier  stars.  I  cannot  afford  it.  But  so  far  from 
condemning  those  v/ho  can,  I  deem  it  a  writer's  duty, 
and  think  it  creditable  to  his  heart,  to  feel  and  express  a 
resentment  proportioned  to  the  grossness  of  the  provoca- 
tion, and  the  importance  of  the  object.  There  is  no  pro- 
fession on  earth  which  requires  an  attention  so  early,  so 
long,  orsounintermitting,  as  that  of  poetry  ;  and,  indeed, 
as  that  of  literary  composition  in  general,  if  it  be  such  as 
at  all  satisfies  the  demands  both  of  the  taste  and  of  sound 
logic.  How  difficult  and  delicate  fi  task  even  the  mere 
mechanism  of  verse  is,  may   be    conjectured   from    the 

describe  the  earth  as  in  imminent  danger  of  exorbitating-,  or  of  falling 
into  the  sun,  according  as  the  assertor  of  the  absurdity  coryfined  his  atten- 
tion either  to  tke  projectile  or  to  the  attractive  force  exclusively. 


32 

failure  of  those  who  have  attempted  poetry  late  in  lite. 
Where,  then,  a  man  has,  from  his  earliest  youth,  devoted 
his  whole  being  to  an  object  whicli,  by  the  admission  of 
all  civilized  nations  in  all  ages  is  l)onourable  as  a  pursuit, 
and  glorious  as  an  attainment  ;  what,  of  all  that  relates  to 
himself  and  his  family,  if  only  we  except  his  moral  cha- 
I'acter,  can  have  fairer  claims  to  his  protection,  or  more 
authorize  acts  of  self-detence  than  the  elaborate  products 
of  his  intellect,  and  intellectual  industry  ?  Prudence  it- 
self would  command  us  io  shori'  even  if  defect  or  diver- 
sion of  natural  sensibility  had  prevented  us  from  feeling, 
a  due  interest  and  qualified  anxiety  for  the  offspring  and 
representatives  of  our  nobler  being.  I  krfovv  it,  alas  I  by 
woful  experience  1  I  have  laid  too  many  eggs  in  the  hot 
sands  of  this  wilderness,  the  world,  with  ostrich  careless- 
ness and  ostrich  oblivion.  The  greater  part,  indeed ,  have 
been  trod  under  foot,  and  are  forgotten  ;  but  yet  no  small 
number  have  crept  forth  into  life,  some  to  furnish  feathers 
for  the  caps  of  others,  and  still  more  to  plume  the  shafts 
in  the  quivers  of  my  enemies  j  of  them  that,  unprorokcd, 
have  lain  in  wait  against  my  soul. 

"  Sic  vos,  noa  vobis  mellificatis,  apes  1" 


An  instance  in  confirmation  of  the  note,  p.  27,  occurs  to  me 
as  I  am  correcting  this  sheet,  with  the  Faithful  Shepherdess 
open  before  me.     Mr.  Seward  first  traces  Fletcher's  lines  : 

**  More  foul  diseases  than  e'er  yet  the  hot 
Sun  bred  through  his  burnings,  while  the  dog* 
Pursues  the  raging  lion,  throwing  the  fog 
And  deadly  vapour  from  his  angry  breath. 
Filling  the  lower  world  with  plague  and  death. "-•- 

To  Spenser's  Shepherd's  Calendar, 

**  The  rampant  lion  hunts  he  fast 
With  dogs  of  noisome  breath, 
Whose  baleful  barking  brings,  in  haste, 
Pyne,  plagues,  and  dreary  death  I'' 

He  then  takes  occasion  to  introduce  Horr>er'  simile  of  the  sight 
of  Achilles*  shield  to  Priam  compared  with  iJae  Du^  Star,  lite- 
rally thus— 


33 

"  For  this  indeed  is  most  splendid,  but  it  was  made  an  evil 
sign,  and  brings  many  a  consuming"  disease  to  wretched  mor- 
tals." Nothing  can  be  more  simple  as  a  description,  or  more 
accurate  as  a  simile  ;  which,  says  Mr.  S.,  is  thus  Jinely  trans- 
lated by  Mr.  Pope  ; 

"  Terrific  Glory !  for  his  burning  breath 

Taints  the  red  air  with  fevers,  plagues,  and  death  P* 

Now  here  (not  to  mention  the  tremendous  bombast)  the  Do^ 
StaVy  so  called,  is  turned  into  a  real  Dog,  a  very  odd  Dog, 
a  fire,  lever,  plague,  and  death-breathing,  rec?-air-tainting 
Dog :  and  the  whole  visual  likeness  is  lost,  while  the  likeness 
in  the  effects  is  rendered  absurd  by  the  exaggeration  In  Spen- 
ser and  Fletcher  the  thought  is  justifiable  ;  for  the  images  are 
at  least  consistent,  and  it  was  the  intention  of  the  writers  to 
mark  the  seasons  by  this  allegory  of  visualized  Fun$^ 


^ 


:i4 


CHAPTER  III; 


Tlie  author's  ohligations  to  critics,  and  the  probable  occa' 
sion — Principles  of  modern  criticism — Air,  Southey*s 
works  and  character. 


To  anonymous  critics  in  reviews,  magazines,  and 
news  journals  of  various  name  and  rank,  and  to  satirists, 
with  or  without  a  name,  in  verse  or  prose,  or  in  verse 
text  aided  by  prose  comment,  I  do  seriously  believe  and 
profess,  that  I  owe  full  two  thirds  of  whatever  reputation 
and  publicity  I  happen  to  possess  For  when  the  name 
of  an  individual  has  occurred  so  frequently,  in  so  many 
works,  for  so  great  a  length  of  time,  the  readers  of  these 
works,  (which  with  a  shelf  or  two  of  Beauties,  Elegant 
Extracts  and  Anas,  form  nine  tenths  of  the  reading 
public)*  cannot  but  be  familiar  with  the  name,  without 
distinctly  remembering  whether  it  was  introduced  for  an 
eulogy  or  for  censure.  And  this  becomes  the  more  like- 
ly,   if  (as  1    believe)  the  habit  of  perusing  periodical 

*  For  as  to  the  devotees  of  the  circulation  libmries,  I  dare  not  com- 
pliment their  pass  time,  or  rather  kill  time,  with  the  name  of  readipg.  Call 
It  rather  a  sort  oi  beggarly  da}  -dreaming,  during  w^iich  the  mind  of  the 
dreamer  furnishes  lor  itself  nothing  but  laziness  and  a  little  mawkish  sen- 
sibility ;  while  the  whole  materiel  and  imagerv*  of  the  doze  is  supplied  ab 
rxtra  by  a  sort  of  mental  camera  obscura  manufactured  at  the  printing  of- 
fice, which  pro  tempore  lixes,  reflects,  and  transmits  the  moving  phantasms 
ufone  man's  delirium,  so  as  to  people  the  barrenness  of  an  hundred  other 
brains  afflicted  v,  'th  the  same  trance  or  suspension  of  all  common  sense 
and  all  definite  purpose.  We  should,  therefore,  transfer  this  species  of 
amusement,  (if  indeed  those  can  be  said  to  retire  a  musts,  who  were  never 
in  their  <^ompany,  or  reJ-^xation  be  attributable  to  those  whose  bows  are 
ne^'er  bent,)  from  the  genius,  reading,  to  that  comprehensive  class  char-^ 
actenzedby  the  power  of  reconciling  the  contrary  )  et  co-existing  propen- 
sities of  human  nature-,  namely,  indulgence  of  sloth  and  hatred  or  vacan- 
cy. In  addition  to  novels  an^  tales  of  chivalry  in  prose  or  rh}  me,  (by 
rfhich  last  I  mean  neither  rhythm  nor  metre,)  tliis  genus  comprises  as  its 
.species,  gaming,  swinging,  or  swaying  on  a  chair  or  gate  :  spitting  over 
abridge;  smokine  ;  snuft'-trking  ;  "tete-a-tete  quarrels  after  dinner  be- 
tween husband  and  v^'ife  ;  conning,  word  by  word,  all  the  advertisements^ 
of  the  daily  advertiser  in  a  public  house  on  a  rainy  day,  &c.  &c.  &c. 


35 

works  may  be  properly  added  to  Averrhoe's*  catalogue 
of  A.i\tj-MnEx\!o.vics,  or  weakeners  of  the  memory.  But 
where  this  has  not  been  the  case,  yeA  the  reader  will  be 
apt  to  suspect,  that  there  must  be  something  more  than 
usually  strong  and  extensive  in  a  reputation,  that  could 
either  require  or  stand  so  merciless  and  long-continued  a 
cannonading  Without  any  feeling  of  anger,  therefore, 
(for  which,  indeed,  on  my  own  account,  1  have  no  pre- 
text,) 1  may  yet  be  allowed  to  express  some  degree  of 
surprise,  that  after  having  run  the  critical  gauntlet  tor  a 
certain  class  of  faults  which  \  had,  nothing  having  come 
before  the  judgment  seat  in  the  interim,  I  should,  year 
after  year,  quarter  after  quarter,  month  after  month,  (not 
to  mention  sundry  petty  periodicals  of  still  quicker  revo- 
lution, *'  or  weekly  or  diurnal,")  have  been  for  at  least 
seventeen  years  consecutively  dragged  forth  by  them  inta 
the  foremost  ranks  of  the  proscribed,  and  forced  to  abide 
the  brunt  of  abuse,  for  faults  directly  opposite,  and  which 
I  certainly  had  not.     How  shall  I  explain  this  ? 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  case  with  others,  T  cer- 
tainly cannot  attribute  this  persecution  to  personal  dis- 
like, or  to  envy,  or  to  feelings  of  vindictive  animosity. 
Not  to  the  former  ;  for,  with  the  exception  ot  a  very  few 
who  are  my  intimate  friends,  and  were  so  before  they 
were  known  as  authors,  I  have  had  little  other  acquaint- 
ance with  literary  characters  than  what  may  be  implied 
in  an  accidental  introduction,  or  casual  meeting  in  a  loixt 
company.  And,  as  tar  as  words  and  looks  can  be  trust- 
ed, 1  must  believe  that,  even  in  these  instances,  I  had 
excited  no  unfriendly  disposition. t      Neither   by   letter, 

*  Ex.  gr.  Perliculos  e  capillis  cxcerptos  in  arcnam  jacerc  incontusos  ; 
eatin<^  of  unripe  fruit ;  gazing-  on  the  clouds,  and  (in  g-enere)  on  moveal)le 
things  suspended  in  the  air ;  riding  among  a  multitude  of  camels  ;  tre- 
qucnt  laughter  ;  listening  to  a  series  of  jests  and  humourous  anecdotes, 
as  vvh^n  (so  to  modernise  the  learned  Saracen's  meaning)  one  man's  droll 
storv  of  an  Irishman,  inevitably  occasions  another's  droll  story  ofaJ5cotch- 
man,  which,  again,  by  the  same  sort  of  conjunction  disjunctive,  leads  to 
some  etourderie  of  a  VVelclirnan,  and  that  again  to  some  sly  hit  of  a 
Yorkshireman  ;  the  habit  of  reading  tomb-stones  in  church-yards.  Sic. 
By-the-by,  this  catalogue,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  is  not  insusceptible 
of  a  sound  pcychological  commentary. 

t  Some  years  ago  a  gentleman,  the  chief  vrriter  and  conductor  of  a  ce- 
lebrated review,  distinguished  by  its  hostility  to  Mr.  Southey,  spent  a 
day  or  two  at  Keswick.  That  ho  was,  without  diminution  on  this  account, 
treated  with  every  hospitable  attention  by  Mr.  ^^outhey  and  myself,  t 
trust  1  need  not  say.  I^ut  one  thing  I  may  venture  to  notice,  that  at  no 
period  of  my  life  do  I  remember  to  have  received  so  many,  and  such  high 
coloured,  comj^liiueiiti  in.  50  short  a  space^of  time.  He  was  likewise  circmur 


36 

er  in  conversation,  Lave  I  ever  had  dispute  or  controver' 
sy  be^'ond  the  common  social  interchange  of  opinions. 
Nay,  where  1  had  reason  to  suppose  my  convictions  fun- 
damentally«  different,  it  has  been  my  habit,  and  1  may 
add,  the  impulse  of  my  nature,  to  assign  the  grounds  of 
my  belief,  rather  than  the  belief  itself;  and  not  to  express 
dissent,   tilJ  1  could  establish  some  points  of  complete 

stantially  informed  by  what  series  of  accidents  it  h^d  happened,  that  Mr. 
Word;  worth,  Mr.  Sou  they,  and  I,  had  become  neig-hbours ;  and  how  ut- 
terly unfounded  was  the  supposition,  that  we  considered  ourselves,  as  be- 
lonicing  to  any  common  school,  but  that  of  good  sense,  confirmed  by  the 
long-established  models  of  the  best  times  of  Greece,  Rome,  Italy,  and 
England,  and  still  more  groundless  the  notion,  that  Mr.  Southey,  (for,  as 
to  myself,  1  have  published  so  little,  and  tliat  little  of  so  little  importance, 
as  to  make  it  almost  ludicrous  to  mention  my  name  at  all,)  could  have  beea 
concerned  in  the  formation  of  a  poetic  sect  with  Mr.  Wordsworth,  when 
so  many  of  his  works  had  been  published,  not  only  previously  to  any  ac- 
quaintance between  them,  but  before  Mr.  VVordsworth  himself  had  writ- 
ten any  thing  but  in  a  diction  ornate,  and  uniformly  sustained;  when,  too, 
the  slightest  examination  will  make  it  evident,  that  between  those  and 
the  after  writings  of  Mr.  !:>outhey,  there  exists  no  other  difference  than 
that  of  a  progressive  degree  of  excellence  from  progressive  develop- 
ment of  power,  and  prop-essive  facility  from  habit  and  increase  of  ex- 
perience. Yet  among  the  first  articles  which  this  man  wrote  after  hfs 
return  from  Keswick,  we  were  characterized  as  *'  the  School  of  whining 
and  hypochondriacal  poets  that  haunt  the  Lakes."  In  repl}^  to  a  let- 
ter from  the  same  gentleman,  in  which  he  had  asked  me,  whether  I 
was  in  earnest  in  preferring  the  style  of  Hooker  to  that  of  Dr.  John- 
son, and  Jeremy  Taylor  to  Burke,  I  stated,  somewhat  at  large,  the 
comparitive  excellences  and  defects  which  characterised  our  best  prose 
writers,  from  the  reformation  to  the  first  iialf  of  Gharles  IL  ;  and  that  of 
those  who  had  flourished  during  the  present  reign,  and  the  preceding  one. 
About  twelve  months  afterwards  a  review  appeared  on  the  same  subject, 
in  the  concluding  paragraph  of  which  the  reviewer  asserts,  that  his  chief 
motive  for  entering  into  tlie  discussion  was  to.separate  a  rational  and" 
qualified  admiration  of  our  elder  writers,  from  the  indiscriminate  enthusi- 
asm of  a  recent  school,  who  praised  what  thej'  did  not  understand,  and 
caricatured  what  they  were  unable  to  imitate.  And,  that  no  doubt  might 
be  left  concerning  the  persons  alluded  to,  the  writer  annexes  the  names 
of  Miss  Bailie,  W.  Solthev,  Wordsworth,  and  Coleridge.  For  hat 
which  follows,  (have  only  ear-say  evidence,  but  yet  such  as  demands  my 
belief;  viz.  that  on  being  questioned  concerninj^  this  apparently  wanton 
attack,  more  especially  with  reference  to  Miss  Baihe,  the  writer  had 
stated  as  his  motives,  that  this  lady,  when  at  Edinburgh,  had  declined  a 
proposal  of  introdu-  ing  him  to  her  ;  that  Mr.  Southey  had  written  against 
liim;  andiMr.  Wordsworth  liad  talked  contemptuously  of  him;  but  that 
as  to  Coleridge^  he  had  noticed  him  merely  because  the  names  of  J^outhey 
and  Wordsworth  and  Cukridge  always  went  together.  But  if  it  were 
worth  while  to  mix  together,  as  ingredients,  half  the  anec dotes  which  I 
either  myself  know  to  be  true,  or  which  J  have  i*ecoived  from  men  inca- 
pable of  intentional  fa'seiiood,  concerning  the  characters,  qualifications^ 
and  motives  of  our  anonymous  critics,  whose  decisions  are  oracles  for  our 
reading  publi  •,  [  might  safely  borrow  th€  words  of  the  apocryphal  Da-. 
n'fe!  :  "  Givf  mtleaie^  O  Sovkreign  Pibiic,  and  J  shali  slay  tins  dragovi 
nithoui  sword  or  ,sto"''*  For  the  compound  would  I*"  as  the  ''  /Htrh,  and 
/af.  cn'i  hnir,  rvhuh  Danitl  took,  and  did  seethe  them  together^  and  made 
lumps  ihfi^  efy  and  pnf  into  the  drngon's  mouthy  and  so  the  diagon  burst  i^ 
mndsTi  and  DanUl  saidi  lo,  toesb.  Afi&  the  Gods  y£  woiiaiujR.'^ 


37 

sympathy,   some   grounds  common  to  both  sides,   from 
nhich  to  commence  its  explanation 

Still  less  can  i  place  these  attacks  to  the  charge  of 
envy.  The  (ew  pages  which  1  have  published,  are  of 
too  distant  a  date  ;  and  the  extent  of  their  sale  a  proof  too 
conclusive  against  their  having  been  popular  at  any  time, 
to  render  probable,  1  had  almost  said  possible,  the  ex- 
citement of  envy  on  their  account ;  and  the  man  who 
should  envy  me  on  any  other ^  verily  he  must  be  envy- 
mad! 

Lastly  ;  with  as  little  semblance  of  reason  could  I  sus- 
pect any  animosity  towards  me  from  vindictive  feelings 
as  the  cause.  I  have  before  said,  that  my  acquaintance 
with  literary  men  has  been  limited  and  distant;  and  that 
I  have  had  neither  dispute  nor  controversy.  From  my 
first  entrance  into  life,  I  have,  with  few  and  short  inter- 
vals, lived  either  abroad  or  in  retirement  My  different 
eisays  on  subjects  of  national  interest,  published  at  dif- 
ferent times,  first  in  the  Mornings  Post  and  then  in  the 
Courier,  with  my  courses  of  lectures  on  the  principles  of 
criticism  as  applied  to  Shakspeare  and  Milton,  constitute 
my  whole  publicity ;  the  only  occasions  on  which  1  could 
offend  any  member  of  the  republic  of  letters.  With  one 
solitary  exception,  in  which  my  words  were  first  mis-stated, 
and  then  wantonly  applied  to  an  individual,  I  could  ne- 
ver learn  that  1  had  excited  the  displeasure  of  any  among 
my  literary  contemporaries.  Having  announced  my  in- 
tention to  give  a  course  of  lectures  on  the  characteristic 
merits  and  defects  of  the  English  poetry  in  is  different 
eras  ;  first,  from  Chaucer  to  Milton  ;  second,  from  Dry  den 
inclusive  to  Thompson  ;  and  third,  from  Cowper  to  the 
present  day  ;  I  changed  my  plan,  and  confined  my  disqui- 
sition to  the  two  former  eras,  that  I  might  furnish  no  pos- 
sible pretext  for  the  unthinking  to  misconstrue,  or  the  ma- 
lignant to  misapply,  ray  words,  and  having  stampt  thefr 
own  meaning  on  them,  to  pass  them  as  current  coin  in 
the  marts  of  garrulity  or  detraction. 

Praises  of  the  unworthy  are  felt  by  ardent  minds  as 
robberies  of  the  df-seiving  ;  and  it  is  too  irue,  and  too  fre- 
qu<-nt,  that  Bacon,  Harrington,  Machiaval  awd  Spmosa, 
are  not  read>  becausi^  Hume,  i.ondillac,  and  Voltaire 
are  But  in  p^()^liscl^ous  company,  no  prudent  laan  will 
oppugn  the  menU  uf  a  contemporary  in  Uis  own  supposed 


38 

department ;  contenting  himself  with  praising  in  his  turn 
those  whom  he  deems  excellent.  i[  I  should  ever  deem 
it  my  duty  at  all  to  oppose  the  pretensions  of  individuals, 
I  would  oppose  them  in  books  which  could  be  weighed 
and  answered,  in  which  1  could  evolve  the  whole  of  my 
reasons  and  feelings,  Vvilh  their  requisite  limits  and  mo- 
difications ;  not  in  irrecoverable  conversation,  where, 
however  strong  the  reasons  might  be,  the  feelings  that 
prompted  them  would  assuredly  be  attributed  by  some 
one  or  other  to  envy  and  discontent.  Besides,  I  well 
know,  and  1  trust,  have  acted  on  that  knowledge,  that  it 
must  be  the  ignorant  and  injudicious  w^ho  extol  the  un- 
worthy ;  and  the  eulogies  of  critics  without  taste  or  judg- 
ment are  the  natural  reward  of  authors  without  feeling 
or  genius.     ''  Sint  unicuique  sua  premia." 

How,  then,  dismissing,  as  I  do,  these  three  causes,  am 
I  to  account  for  attacks,  the  long  continuance  and  invete- 
racy of  which  it  would  require  all  three  to  explain.  The 
solution  may  seem  to  have  been  given,  or  at  least  suggest- 
ed, in  a  note  to  a  preceding  page.  /  rc^as  in  habits  of 
intimacy  with  Mr,  Wordsworth  and  Mr»  Southey  !  This, 
however,  transfers,  rather  than  removes,  the  difficulty. 
Be  it,  that  by  an  unconscionable  extension  of  the  old 
adage,  *'  noscitur  a  socio,"  my  literary  friends  are  never 
under  the  water- fall  of  criticism  but  1  must  be  wet 
through  with  the  spray  ;  yet,  how  came  the  torrent  to  de- 
scend upon  them  ? 

First,  then,  with  regard  to  Mr.  Southey.  I  well  re- 
member tl>e  general  reception  of  his  earlier  publications, 
viz.  the  poems  published  with  Mr.  Lovell,  under  the 
names  of  Moschus  and  Bion  ;  the  two  volumes  of  poems 
under  his  own  name,  and  the  Joan  of  Arc.  The  censures 
of  the  critics  by  profession  are  extant,  and  may  be  easily 
referred  to: — careless  lines,  inequality  in  the  merit  of 
the  different  poems,  and,  (in  the  lighter  works,)  a  predi- 
lection for  the  strange  and  whimsical ;  in  short,  such 
faults  as  might  have  been  anticipated  in  a  young  and  ra- 
pid writer,  were  indeed  sufficiently  enforced.  Nor  was 
there,  at  that  time,  wanting  a  party  spirit  to  aggravate 
the  defects  of  a  poet,  who,  with  all  the  courage  of  un- 
corrupted  youth,  had  avowed  his  zeal  for  a  cause  which 
he  deemed  that  of  liberty,  and  his  abhorrence  of  oppres- 
sion, by  whatever  name  consecrated.     But  it  was  as  littfe 


59 

objected   bj  others,  as   dreamt   of  by  the  poet  himself, 
that   he  preferred  careless  and  prosaic  lines  on  rule  and 
of  forethought,  or,  Indeed,  that  he  pretended  to  any  other 
art  or  theory  of  poetic  diction  beside  that  which  we   may 
all  learn  from  Horace,  Quintilian,  the  admirable  dialogue 
de  Causis  Corruptoe  Eloquentife,  or  Strada's  Prolusions  ; 
if,  indeed,  natural  good  sense,  and  the  early  study  of  the 
best    models    in    his  own  language,    had  not    infused  the 
same   maxims  more  securely,  and,   if  I  may   venture  the 
expression,  more  vitally.      All  that  could  have  been  fairly 
deduced,  was,  that  in  his  taste  and  estiuiation  of  writers, 
Mr>    Southey  agreed  far  more   with   VVarton    than    with 
Johnson.     Nor  do  I  mean  to  deny  that,  at  all  times,  Mr. 
Southey  was  of  the  same-  mind  with  Sii*   Philip  Sydney, 
in  preferring  an  excellent  ballad  in  the  humblest  style  of 
poetry,  to  twenty  indifferent  poems  that  strutted   in  the 
highest.     And    by  what  have  his  works,  published  since 
then,  been  characterized,  each   more  strikingly  than  the 
preceding,  but    by  greater  splendour,  a  deeper  pathos, 
profounder  reflections,  and  a   more  sustained  dignity  of 
language  and  of  metre  ?     Distant  may  the  period  be,  but 
whenever  the  time  shall  come  when   all   his  works  shall 
be  collected  by  some  editor  worthy  to  be  his  biographer, 
I  trust,  that  an  excerpta  of  all  the  passages  in  which  his 
writings^  name, and  character,  have  been  attacked,  froi--  the 
pamphlets  and  periodical  works  of  the  last  twenty  years, 
may  be  an  accompaniment.   Yet  that  it  would  prove  medi- 
cinal in  after  times  f  dare  not  hope  ;  for  as  long  as  there  are 
readers  to  be  delighted  with  calumny,  there  will  be  found 
reviewers  to  calumniate j  and  such  readers  will  become,  ia 
all   probability,    more  numerous  in  proportion  as  a    still 
greater  diffusion  of  literature  shall  produce  an  increase 
of  sciolists,  and   sciolism   brings   with   it  petulance  and 
presumption.      In  times  ol  old,  books  were  as    religious" 
oracles;  as  literature  advanced,  they  next  became  vene- 
rable   preceptors  ;  they   then  descended  to  the  rank  of 
instructive  friends;  and,  as  their  numbers  increased,  they 
sunk  still   lower,    to  that  of   entertaining    companions  ; 
and,  at  present,  they  seem  degraded  into  culprits  to  hold 
up  their  hands  at  the  bar  of  every  self-elected,  yet  not 
the  less  peremptory,  judge,  who  chooses  to  write  from  hu- 
mour or  interest,  from  enmity  or  arrogance,  and  to  abide 


40 

the  decision,  (in  the  words  of  Jeremy  Taylor,)  *^ofhiru 
that  rends  in  malice,  or  him  that  reads  after  dinner." 

The  same  gradual  retrograde  movement  may  be  traced 
in  the  relation  which  the  authors  themselves  have  assumed 
toward  their  readers  From  the  lofty  address  of  Bacon  : 
*'  these  are  the  meditations  of  Francis  of  Verulam,  which, 
that  posterity  should  be  possessed  of,  he  deemed  their 
interest ;"  or  from  dedication  to  monarch  or  pontiff,  in 
which  t|ie  honour  given  was  asserted  in  equipoise  to  the 
patronage  acknowledged  from  Pindar's 


'frr'  aKKoi- 


ndTTTaivt  TTopcriov; 
*    ETti  cri  Tf  tStov 

T\lS  x?ovov  vanTv,  ipii 

OynKhv,  ff^oJpavTov  ccf  I'av  ko^'  EA(» 
-Aavos  iovra  Tta^iU' 

Olymp.  Od.  I. 

Poets  and  Philosophers,  rendered  diffident  by  their  very 
number,  addressed  themselves  to  "  /earnet^  readers  ;"  then 
aimed  to  conciliate  the  graces  of  "  the  candid  reader  ;" 
till  the  critic,  still  rising  as  the  author  sunk,  the  amateurs  of 
literature,  collectively,  were  erected  into  a  municipality 
of  judges,  and  addressed  as  the  town  !  And  now,  final- 
ly, all  men  hems:  supposed  able  to  read,  and  all  readers 
able  to  judge,  the  multitudinous  public,  shaped  into  per- 
sonal unity  by  the  magic  of  abstraction,  sits  nominal  des- 
pot on  the  throne  of  criticism.  But,  alas  !  as  in  other 
despotisms,  it  but  echoes  the  decisions  of  its  invisible 
ministers,  whose  intellectual  claims  to  the  guardianship 
of  the  muses  seem,  for  the  greater  part,  analogous  to  the 
physical  qualifications  which  adapt  their  oriental  brethren 
for  the  superintendance  of  the  harem  Thus  it  is  said 
that  St.  Nepomuc  was  installed  the  guardian  of  bridges, 
because  he  had  fallen  over  one,  and  sunk  out  of  sight  ; 
thus,  too,  St.  Cecilia  is  said  to  have  been  first  propitiated 
by  musicians,  because,  having  failed  in  her  own  attempts, 
she  had  taken  a  dislike  to  the  art,  and  all  its  success- 
ful professors.  But  1  shall  probably  have  occasion, 
hereafter,  to  deliver  my  convictions  more  at  large  con- 


41 

^earning  this  state  of  things,  and  its  influences  on  tastCj 
genius,  and  morality. 

In  the  ''  Thalaba"  the  ''  Madoc,'' and  still  more  eri- 
dently  in  the  unique'^  **  Cid,''  the  *'  Kehama,"  and  as 
last,  so  best,  the  '*  Don  Roderick,"  Southey  has  given 
abundant  proof,  '*  se  cogitasse  quam  sit  magnum  dare 
aliquid  in  manus  hominum  :  nee  persuadere  sibi  posse, 
non  saepe  tractandum  quod  placere  et  semper  et  omnibus 
cupiat."  Plin.  Ep.  Lib.  7.  Ep.  17.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  I  guess,  that  Mr  Southey  was  quite  unable  to  com- 
prehend wherein  could  consist  the  crime  or  mischief  of 
printing  half  a  dozen  or  more  playful  poems  ;  or,  to  speak 
more  generally,  compositions  which  would  be  enjoyed 
or  passed  over,  according  as  the  taste  and  humour  of  the 
reader  might  chance  to  be  ;  provided  they  contained  no- 
thing immoral.  Jn  the  present  age  ''  periturae  parcere 
chartae"  is  emphatically  an  unreasonable  demand.  The 
merest  trifle  he  ever  sent  abroad  had  tenfold  better 
claims  to  its  ink  and  paper,  than  all  the  silly  criticisms 
which  prove  no  more  than  that  the  critic  was  not  one  of 
those  for  whom  the  trifle  was  writien,  and  than  all  the 
grave  exhortations  to  a  greater  reverence  for  the  public. 
As  if  the  passive  page  of  a  book,  by  having  an  epigram 
or  doggerel  tale  impressed  on  it,  instantly  assumed  at 
once  loco-motive  power  and  a  sort  of  ubiquity,  so  as  to 
flutter  and  buz  in  the  ear  of  the  public  to  the  sore  annoy- 
ance of  the  said  mysterious  personage.  But  what  gives 
an  additional  and  more  ludicrous  absurdity  to  these  la- 
mentations is  the  curious  fact,  that  if  in  a  volume  of  poetry 
the  critic  should  find  poem  or  passage  which  he  deems 
more  especially  worthless,  he  is  sure  to  select  and  reprint 
it  in  the  review ;  by  which,  on  his  own  grounds,  he 
wastes  as  much  more  paper  than  the  author  as  the  copies 
of  a  fashionable  review  are  more  numerous  than  those  of 
the  original  book  ;  in  some,  and  those  the  most  prominent 
instances,  as  ten   thousand  to  five  hundred.     I  know  no- 


*  I  have  ventured  to  call  it  **  unique,"  not  only  because  I  knorr  no 
work  of  the  kind  in  our  language  (if  we  except  a  few  chp.pt'^rs  of  the  old 
translation  of  Froissart)  none  which,  uniting-  the  charms  of  romance  and 
histor}-,  kef-ps  the  imagination  so  constantly  on  the  wing,  and  yet  leaves 
so  much  for  after  reflection  ;  but  likewise,  and  chiefly,  because  it  is  a  com- 
pilation which,  in  the  various  excellencies  of  translation,  selection ,  and 
arrangement,  required,  and  proves  greater  genius  in  the  compiler,  as  liv- 
ing in  the  present  state  of  sociefj>  than  in  the  original  composers. 

Vol.  L  4 


42 

thing  that  surpasses  the  vileness  of  deciding  on  the  me- 
rits of  a  poet  or  painter  (not  by  characteristic  defects  ; 
for  where  there  is  genius,  these  always  point  to  his  char- 
acteristic beauties  ;  but)  by  accidental  failures  or  faulty 
passages  ;  except  the  impudence  of  defending  it,  as  the 
proper  duty,  and  most  instructive  part,  of  criticism. 
Omit,  or  pass  slightly  over,  the  expression,  grace,  and 
grouping  of  Raphael'syzo-wres ;  but  ridicule  in  detail  the 
knitting-needles  and  broom-twigs,  that  are  to  represent 
trees  in  his  back  grounds  ;  and  never  let  him  hear  the  last 
of  his  galli-pots  !  Admit,  that  the  Allegro  and  Penseroso 
of  Milton  are  not  without  merit ;  but  repay  yourself  for 
this  concession,  by  reprinting  at  length  the  two  poems  on 
the  University  Carrier  !  As  a  fair  specimen  of  his  sonnets, 
quote  ''  a  book  was  writ  of  late  called  Tetrachordon  ;''^ 
and  as  characteristic  of  his  rhythm  and  metre  cite  his  li- 
teral translation  of  the  first  and  second  psalm  !  in  order 
to  justify  yourself,  you  need  only  assert,  that  had  you 
dwelt  chiefly  on  the  beauties  and  excellencies  of  the  poet, 
the  admiration  of  these  might  seduce  the  attention  of  fu- 
ture writers  from  the  objects  of  their  love  and  wonder,  to 
an  imitation  of  the  few  poems  and  passages  in  which  the 
poet  was  most  unlike  himself. 

But  till  reviews  are  conducted  on  far  other  principles, 
and  with  far  other  motives  ;  till  in  the  place  of  arbitrary 
dictation  and  petulant  sneers,  the  reviewers  support  their 
decisions  by  reference  to  fixed  canons  of  criticism,  pre- 
viously established  and  deduced  from  the  nature  of  man, 
reflecting  minds  w^ill  pronounce  it  arrogance  in  them  thus 
to  announce  themselves  to  men  of  letters,  as  the  guides 
of  their  taste  and  judgment.  To  the  purchaser  and  mere 
reader,  it  is,  at  all  events,  an  injustice.  He  who  tells  me 
that  there  are  defects  in  a  new  work,  tells  me  nothing 
which  I  should  not  have  taken  for  granted  without  his  in- 
formation. But  he  who  points  out  and  elucidates  the 
beauties  of  an  original  work,  does  indeed  give  me  inte- 
resting information,  si^ch  as  experience  would  not  have 
authorized  me  in  anticipating.  And  as  to  compositions 
which  the  authors  themselves  announce  with  ''  Haec  ipsi 
novimus  esse  nihil,"  why  should  we  judi^e  by  a  different 
rule  two  printed  works,  only  because  the  one  author  w^as 
alive,  and  the  ovher  in  his  grave  ?  What  literary  man  has 
not  regretted  the  prudery  of  Spratt  in  refusing  to  let  his 


43 

Triend  Cowley  appear  in  bis  slippers  and  dressing  gown  ? 
I  am  not  perhaps  the  only  one  who  has  derived  an  inno- 
cent amusement  from  the  riddles,  conundrums,  tri-syllable 
lints,  &c.  &c.  of  Swift  and  his  conespondents,  in  hours 
of  languor,  when,  to  have  read  his  more  finished  works 
would  have  been  useless  to  myself,  and,  in  some  sort,  ail 
act  of  injustice  to  the  author.  But  I  am  at  a  loss  to  con- 
ceive by  what  perversity  of  judgment  these  relaxations 
of  his  genius  could  be  employed  to  diminish  his  fame  as 
the  writer  of  ''  Gulliver's  travels,"  and  the  '*  Tale  of  a 
Tub."  Had  Mr  Southey  written  twice  as  many  poenvs 
of  inferior  merit,  or  partial  interest,  as  have  enlivened  the 
journals  of  the  day,  they  would  have  added  to  his  honour 
with  good  and  wise  men,  not  merely,  or  prmcipally,  as 
proving  the  versatility  of  liis  talents,  but  as  evidences  of 
the  purity  of  that  mind  which,  even  in  its  levities,  never 
wrote  a  line  which  it  need  regret  on  any  moral  account. 

I  have  in  imagination  transferred  to   the  future  biogra- 
pher the    duty  of  contrasting  Soulhey's  fixed   and   well- 
earned  fame,   with  the  abuse  and  indefatigable  hostility 
of  his  anonymous  critics  from  hi?  early  youth  to   his  ri* 
pest  manhood.     But  I  cannot  think  so  ill  of  human  nature 
as  not  to  believe,  that  these   critics  have  already    taken 
shame    to  themselves,   whether  they  consider  the  object 
of  their  abuse  in  his  moral  or  his  literary  character.      For 
reflect  but  on  the  variety  and  extent  of  his  acquirements  ! 
He  stands  second  to  no  man.  either  as  an  historian  or  as  a 
bibliographer;  and   when   1  regard   him  as  a  popular  es- 
sayist, (for  the  articles  of  his  compositions  in  the  reviews 
are  for  the  greater  part  essays  on  subjects  of  deep  or  cu- 
rious interest  rather  than  criticisms  on  particular  works,*) 
I  look  in  vain  for  any  writer,  who  has  conveyed  so  much 
information,  from   so  many  and   such  recondite  sources, 
with  so  many  just  and  original  reflections,  in  a  style  so 
lively  and  poignant,  yet  bO  uniformly  classical   and  per- 
spicuous ;  no  one,  in  short,  who  has  combined  so  much  wis- 
dom with   so  much    wit;  so  much  truth  and  knowledge 
with  so  much  life  and  fancy.     His  prose  is  always  iniel- 
ligibie  and  always  entertaining,      'n  poetry   he  has    at- 
tempted almost  every  species  of  composition  known  be- 

*  See  the  articles  on  mcth  »dism,  in  the  Quarterly  Review:  the  smaH 
volume  of  the  New  System  of  Education,  &c. 


44 

/ore,  and  he  has  added  new  ones ;  and  if  we  except  the 
.highe5:t  lyric,  (in  which  how  lew,  how  very  few  even  of 
the  greatest  minds  have  been  fortunate,)  he  has  attempted 
every  species  successfully  :  from  the  political  song  of  the 
day,  thrown  off  in  the  playful  overflow  of  honest  joy  and 
patriotic  exultation,  to  the  wild  ballad  ;*  from  epistolary 
tase  and  graceful  narrative,  to  austere  and  impetuous 
moral  declamation  ;  from  the  pastoral  claims  and  wild 
streaming  lights  of  the  ^'  Thalaba,*'  in  which  sentiment 
lind  imagery  have  given  permanence  even  to  the  excite- 
ment of  curiosity  ;  and  from  the  full  blaze  of  the  "  Ke- 
hama,"  (a  gallery  of  finished  pictures  in  one  splendid 
i'ancy  piece,  in  which,  notwithstanding,  the  moral  gran- 
deur rises  gradually  above  the  brilliance  of  the  colouring 
and  the  boldness  and  novelty  of  the  machinery,)  to  the 
more  sober  beauties  of  the  *'  Madoc  ;"  and,  lastly,  from 
ihe  Madoc  to  his  *'  Roderic,"  in  which,  retaining  all  his 
former  excellencies  of  a  poet  eminently  inventive  and 
picturesque,  he  has  surpassed  himself  in  language  and 
metre,  in  the  construction  of  the  whole,  and  in  the  splen- 
dour of  particular  passages. 

Here,  then,  shall  I  conclude  ?  No  !  The  characters  of 
the  deceased,  like  the  encomia  on  tombstones,  as  they 
are  described  with  religious  tenderness,  so  are  they 
read,  with  allowing  sympathy,  indeed,  but  yet  with  ra- 
tional deduction.  There  are  men  who  deserve  a  higher 
record  ;  men  with  whose  characters  it  is  the  interest  of 
their  contemporaries,  no  less  than  that  of  posterity,  to  be 
made  acquainted  ;  while  it  i?  yet  possible  for  impartial 
censure,  and  even  for  quick-sighted  envy,  to  cross  exa- 
mine fl:e  tale  without  offence  to  the  courtesies  of  humani- 
ty ;  and  while  the  eulogist,  detected  in  exaggeration  or 
falsehood,  must  pay  the  full  penalty  of  his  baseness  in  the 
contempt  which  brands  the  convicted  flatterer.  Publicly 
has  Mr.  Soulhey  been  reviled  by  nien,  who  (I  would  fain 
hope  for  the  honour  of  human  nature)  hurled  fire  brands 
against  a  fissure  of  their  own  imagination  ;  publicly  have 
his  talents  been  depreciated,  his  principles  denounced  ; 
as  publicly  do  I,  therefore^  who  have  known  him  inti- 
mately,  deem    it  my    duty  to  leave  recorded,  that  it  is 

*  See  the  incomparable  *'  Return  to  Moscow,"  and  the  *'  Old  Woman 
♦f  Berkeley." 


45 

Southey's  almost  unexampled  felicity  to  possess  the  best 
gifts  of  talent  and  genius  free  from  all  their  characteristic 
defects.  To  those  who  remember  the  state  of  our  pub- 
lie  schools  and  universities  some  twenty  years  past,  it 
will  appear  no  ordinary  praise  in  any  man  to  have  pass- 
ed from  innocence  into  virtue  not  only  free  from  all  vi- 
cious habit,  but  unstained  by  one  act  of  intemperance, 
or  the  degradations  akin  to  intemperance.  That  scheme 
of  head,  heart,  and  habitual  demeanour,  which,  in  his 
early  manhood  and  first  controversial  writings,  Milton, 
claiming  the  privilege  of  self-defence,  asserts  of  himself, 
and  challenges  his  calumniators  to  disprove  ;  this  will  his 
school-mates,  his  fellow  collegians,  and  his  maturer 
friends,  with  a  confidence  proportioned  to  the  intimacy 
of  their  knowledge,  bear  witness  to,  as  again  realized  in 
the  life  of  Robert  Southey.  But  still  more  striking  to 
those  who,  by  biography,  or  by  their  own  experience, 
are  familiar  with  the  general  habits  of  industry  and  per- 
severance in  his  pursuits  ;  the  worthiness  and  dignity  of 
those  pursuits  ;  his  generous  submission  to  tasks  of  transi- 
tory interest,  or  such  as  his  genius  alone  could  make 
otherwise  ;  and  that  having  thus  more  than  satisfied  the 
claims  of  affection  or  prudence,  he  should  yet  have  made 
for  himself  time  and  power  to  achieve  more,  and  in  more 
various  departments,  than  almost  any  other  writer  has 
done,  though  employed  wholly  on  subjects  of  his  own 
choice  and  ambition  But  as  Southey  possesses,  and  is 
not  possessed  by,  his  genius,  even  so  is  he  the  master 
even  of  his  virtues.  The  regular  and  methodical  tenor 
of  his  daily  labours,  which  would  be  deen'.ed  rare  in  the 
most  mechanical  pursuits,  and  might  be  e/ivied  by  the 
mere  man  of  business,  loses  all  semblance  of  formality  in 
the  dignified  simplicity  of  his  manners,  in  the  spring  and 
healthful  cheert^ulness  of  his  spirits.  Always  employed, 
his  friends  find  him  always  at  leisure.  No  l*^ss  punctual 
in  trifles,  than  steadfast  in  the  performance  of  highest 
duties,  he  inflicts  none  of  those  small  pains  and  dfscom- 
forts  which  irregular  men  scatter  about  them,  and  which^ 
in  the  aggregate,  so  often  become  formidable  obstacles 
both  to  happiness  and  utility  ;  while,  on  the  contrary,  he 
bestows  all  the  pleasures,  and  inspires  all  th^t  ease  of 
mind  on  those  around  him,  or  connected  with  him  which 
perfect  consistency,  and  (if  such  a  word  might  be  framed) 
4* 


46 

absolute  reUalUity,  equally  in  small  as  in  great  concern«,, 
cannot  but  inspire  aijd  bestow  :  when  this,  too,  is  solten- 
ed  without  being  weakened  by  kindness  and  gentleness. 
I  know  few  men  who  so  well  deserve  the  character  which 
an  ancient  attributes  to  Marcus  Cato,  namely,  that  he  was 
likest  virtue,  in  as  much  as  he  seemed  to  act  aright,  not 
in  obedience  to  an>  law  or  outward  motive,  but  by  the 
necessity  of  a  happy  nature,  which  couM  not  act  other- 
wise. As  son,  brother,  husband,  father,  master,  friend, 
he  moves  with  firm,  yet  Ii£;ht  steps,  alike  unostentatious, 
and  alike  exemplary.  As  a  writer,  he  has  uniformly 
made  his  talents  subserrient  to  the  best  interests  of 
humanity,  of  public  virtue,  and  domestic  piety ;  his 
cause  has  ever  been  the  cause  of  pure  religion  and  of  li- 
berty, of  national  independence,  and  of  national  illumi- 
nation. When  future  critics  shall  weigh  out  his  guerdon 
of  praise  and  censure,  it  will  be  Southey  the  poet  only, 
that  will  supply  them  with  the  scanty  materials  for  the 
latter.  They  will  likewise  not  fail  to  record,  that  as  no 
man  was  ever  a  m.ore  constant  friend,  never  had  poet 
more  friends  and  honourers  among  the  good  of  all  parties; 
and  that  quacks  in  education,  quacks  in  politics,  and 
quacks  in  criticism,  were  his  only  enemies.* 

*  It  is  not  eas}'  to  estimate  the  effects  which  the  example  of  a  young-  man, 
as  highly  distinsruished  for  strict  purity  of  disposition  and  conduct  as^or  in- 
tellectual power  and  literary  acquirements,  may  produce  on  those  of  the 
same  age  with  himself,  especially  on  those  of  similar  pursuits  and  conge- 
nial minds.  For  many  years,  my  opportunities  of  intercourse  with  Mr. 
Southey  have  been  rare,  and  at  long  intervals;  but  1  dwell  with  unabated 
pleasure  on  the  strong  and  sudden,  yet,  I  trust,  not  fleetino-,  influence, 
which  my  moral  being  ui-derwent  on  my  acquaintance  with  him  at  Ox- 
ford, whither  I  had  gone  at  the  commencemv^nt  of  cur  Cambridge  vaca- 
tion on  a  visit  to  an  o'd  school-fellow  Not,  indeed,  on  my  moral  or  re- 
ligious principles,  for  they  hod  never  been  contaminated  :  but  in  awaken- 
in"g  the  sense  of  the  duty  and  dignity  of  making  m.y  actions  accord  with 
those  principles  both  in  word  and  deed.  The  iVregularit  es  on!y  not 
universal  among  the  young  men  of  my  stand  ng,  which  I  always' fcnc?» 
to  be  Tvron^-,  I  tljcn  i*arnt  to  feel  as  degrading;  learnt  to  know  that  an  op- 
posite conduct,  which  was  at  that  time  considered  by  us  as  the  easv  vir- 
tue of  cold  and  selfish  prudence,  might  originate  in  tfie  noblest  emotions, 
in  views  the  most  dismterested  and  imaginative,  h  is  not,  however,  from 
grateful  recollections  only,  that  I  have  teen  impelled  thus  to  leave  these, 
my  deliberate  sentiments,  on  record:  but,  in  some  sense,  as  a  debt  of  jus- 
tice to  the  man  whose  name  has  been  so  often  conne«  t^d  with  mine,  for 
evil  to  which  he  is  a  stranger.  As  a  specimen,  1  subjoin  part  of  a  note, 
from  "  tlie  Beauties  of  the  Anti-Jacobin,"  in  which  having  previously  in- 
formed the  public  that  1  had  been  dishonoured  at  Cambridge  for  preach- 
ing- deism,  at  a  time  when,  for  mj  vouthful  ardour  in  ('efencc  of  Christi- 
anity, J  was  derrird  as  a  bigot  by' the  proselytes  of  French  Fhi-  (or  to 
sj^ak  more  truly,  Psi-j  Icscphy,  the  writer  concludes  with  thest  words  : 


47 

^  Sifrje  this  time  he  has  left  his  native  country,  commenced  citizen  of  the 
world,  left  his  poor  children  fatherless,  and  his  nife  destitute.  Ex  hisdisct^ 
hisfrienas.  Lamb  and  Southet."  With  severest  truth  it  may  be  asserted, 
that  it  would  not  be  easy  to  select  two  men  more  exemplary  in  their  do- 
mestic affections  than  those  whose  names  were  thus  printed  at  full  length 
as  in  the  same  rank  of  morals  with  a  denounced  infidel  and  fugitive,  and 
who  had  left  his  children /a//^6W«55,  a7id  his  wife  destitute!  Is  it  surprising-, 
that  many  good  men  remained  longer  than,  perhaps,  they  otherwise  woufd 
have  done,  adverse  to  a  party  which  encouraged  and  openly  rewarded 
the  authors  of  such  atrocious  calumnies  ?  Qualis  ea,  nescio ;  sed  per  qua* 
les  agis,  scio  et  doleo. 


48 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  Lyrical  Ballads  with  the  preface — Mr,  Wordsworth^ s 
earlier  poems — On  fancy  and  imaginaiion — The  inves- 
tigation of  the  distinction  important  to  the  fine  arts. 

I  hare  wandered  far  from  the  object  in  view,  but  as  I 
fancied  to  myself  readers  who  would  respect  the  feelings 
that  had  tempted  me  from  the  main  road,  so  I  dare  cal- 
culate on  not  a  few  who  will  warmly  sympathise  with 
ihem.  At  present  it  will  be  sufficient  for  my  purpose,  if 
I  have  proved,  that  Mr.  Southey's  writings,  no  more  than 
my  own,  furnished  the  original  occasion  to  this  fiction  of 
B.new  school  of  poetry,  and  of  clamours  against  its  suppo- 
sed founders  and  proselytes. 

As  little  do  I  believe  that  "  Mr.  Wordsw^orth's  Ly- 
rical Ballads"  were  in  themselves  the  cause  1  speak  «-x- 
clusively  of  the  two  volumes  so  entitled.  A  careful  and 
repeated  examination  of  these,  confirms  me  in  the  belief, 
that  the  omission  of  less  than  an  hundred  lines  would  have 
precluded  nine  tenths  of  the  criticism  on  this  work.  I 
hazard  this  declaration,  however,  on  the  supposition,  that 
the  reader  had  taken  it  up,  as  he  would  have  done  any 
other  collection  of  poems  purporting  to  derive  their  sub- 
jects or  interests  from  the  incidents  of  domestic  or  ordina- 
ry life,  intermingled  with  higher  strains  of  meditation 
which  the  poet  utters  in  his  own  person  and  character; 
with  the  proviso,  that  th^y  were  perused  without  know- 
ledge of,  or  reference  to,  the  author^s  peculiar  opinions, 
and  that  the  reader  had  not  had  his  attention  previously 
directed  to  those  peculiarities.  In  these,  as  was  actually 
the  case  with  Mr.  Southev's  earlier  works,  the  lines  and 
passages  which  might  have  oiOfended  the  general  taste, 
would  have  been  considered  as  mere  inequalities,  and  at- 
tributed to  inattention,  not  to  perversity  of  Judgment. 
The  men  of  business  who  had  passed  their  lives  chiefly 
in  cities,  and  who  might  therefore  be  expected  to  derive 
the  highest  pleasure  from  acute  notices  of  nien  and  man- 
ners, conveyed  in  easy,  yet  correct  and  pointed  languiige  ; 
and  all  those  ^vho,  reading  but  little  poetry,  are  most  st.i- 


4^ 

mulated  with  that  species  of  it  which  seems  most  distant 
from  prose,  would  probably  have  passed  by  the  volume 
altogether.  Ot!iers  more  catholic  in  their  taste,  and  yet 
habituated  to  be  most  pleased  when  most  excited,  would 
have  contented  themselves  with  deciding,  that  the  author 
had  been  successful  in  proportion  to  the  elevation  of  his 
style  and  subject.  Not  a  few,  perhaps,  might,  by  their  ad- 
miration o(  *'  the  lines  written  near  Tintern  Abbey," 
those  '*  left  upon  a  seat  under  a  Yew  Tree,"  the  ''  old 
Cumberland  beggar,''  and  "  Ruth,"  have  been  gradually 
led  to  peruse  with  kindred  feeling  the  '^  Brothers,"  the 
**  Hart  leap  well,"  and  whatever  other  poems  in  thai 
collection  may  be  described  as  holding  a  middle  place 
between  those  written  in  the  highest  and  those  in  the 
humblest  style  ;  as,  for  instance,  between  the  *'  Tintern 
Abbey,"  and  "  the  Thorn,"  or  the  ''  Simon  Lee." 
Should  their  taste  submit  to  no  further  change,  and  still 
remain  unreconciled  to  the  colloquial  phrases,  or  the  imi- 
tations of  them,  that  are,  more  or  less,  scattered  through 
the  class  last  mentioned  ;  yet,  even  from  the  small  number 
of  the  latter,  they  would  have  deemed  them  but  an  incon- 
siderable subtraction  from  the  merit  of  the  whole  work ; 
or,  what  is  sometimes  not  unpleasing  in  the  publication 
of  a  new  writer,  as  serving  to  ascertain  the  natural  ten- 
dency, and,  consequently,  the  proper  direction  of  the  au- 
thor's genius. 

In  the  critical  remarks,  therefore,  prefixed  and  annexed 
to  the  "  Lyrical  Ballads,"  I  believe,  that  we  may  safely 
rest,  as  the  true  origin  of  the  unexampled  opposition  which 
Mr.  Wordsworth's  writings  have  been  since  doomed  to  en- 
counter. The  humbler  passages  in  the  poems  themselves 
were  dwelt  on  and  cited  to  justify  the  rejection  of  the 
theory.  What  in  and  for  themselves  would  have  been 
either  forgotten  or  forgiven  as  imperfections,  or  at  least 
comparative  failures,  provoked  direct  hostility  when  an- 
nounced as  intentional,  as  the  result  of  choice  after  full 
deliberation.  Thus  the  poems,  adiiiitted  by  alias  excel- 
lent, joined  with  those  which  had  pleased  the  hr  greater 
number,  though  they  formed  two-thirds  of  che  whole 
work,  instead  ot^  being  deemed  (as  in  all  right  they  should 
have  been,  even  if  we  take  for  granted  that  the  reader 
judged  aright)  an  atonement  for  the  few  exceptions,  gave 
wind  and  fuel  to  the   animosity   against  both  the  poems 


50 

and  the  poet.  In  all  perplexity  there  is  a  portion  of  fear, 
which  predisposes  the  mind  to  an<4er.  Not  able  to  deny 
that  the  author  possessed  both  genius  and  a  powerful  in- 
tellect, they  felt  very  positive^  but  were  not  quite  certain^ 
that  he  mi^ht  not  be  in  the  right,  and  they  themselves  in 
the  wron^  ;  an  unquiet  state  of  mind,  which  seeks  allevi- 
ation by  quarrelling  with  the  occasion  of  it,  and  by  won- 
dering at  the  perverseness  of  the  man  who  had  written 
along  and  argumentative  essay  to  persuade  them,  that 

"  Fair  is  foul,  and  f.ul  is  fair ;" 

in  other  words,  that  they  had  been  all  their  lives  admiring 
without  judgment,  and  were  now  about  to  censure  with- 
out reason."^ 

That  this  conjecture  is  not  wide  from  the  mark,  T  am 
induced  to  believe  from  the  noticeable  fact,  which  1  can 
Btate  on  my  own  knowledge,  that  the  same  general  cen- 

*  In  opinions  of  long  continuance,  and  in  which  we  had  never  before 
been  molested  by  a  single  doui:»t,  to  be  suddenly  convincfA  of  an  error^  is 
almost  like  being-  comicfed  of  a  fault.  There  is  a  state  of  mind,  which  is 
the  direct  antithesis  of  that  which  takes  place  when  we  make  a  butl.  The 
bull,  namely,  consists  in  the  bringing-  tog-ethf^r  two  incompatible  thoug-hts, 
with  th'^  sensatioriy  but  without  the  sense  of  their  connexion.  The  psycho- 
logical condition,  or  that  whir-h  constitutes  the  possibility  of  this  state, 
bemg  such  disproportionate  vividness  of  two  distant  thoughts,  as  extin- 
guishes or  obscures  the  consciousness  of  the  intermediate  images  or  con- 
ceptions, or  whollv  abstracts  the  attention  from  them.  Thus  in  the  well 
known  bull,  "  /  was  ajine  child,  hid  they  chans^ed  mp;"  the  first  conc^^ption 
expressed  in  the  word  "  /,'*  is  that  of  ju'rsonal  identitv — Ego  contf.mplans : 
the  second  expressed  in  the  word  "  me,"  is  the  visual  imag-e  or  object  by 
which  the  mind  represents  to  itself  its  past  condition,  or  rather,  its  person- 
al identity  under  the  form  in  which  it  imagined  itself  prtviously  to  have 
existed — ^"Kgo  contemplatus.  JVow,  the  change  of  one  visual  image  for 
another  im-olves  in  itself  no  absurdity,  and  iVecomes  absurd  only  by  its 
immediate  juxta-position  with  the  first  thought,  which  is  rendered  possi- 
ble by  the  whole  attention  being  successively  absorbed  in  each  singly,  so 
as  not  to  notice  the  interjacent  notion,  *'  changed,"  which,  bv  its  mcon- 
gruity  with  the  first  thought,  "  /,"  constitutesthe  Ijull.  Add  only,  that 
this  process  is  facilitated  by  tlie  circumstance  of  the  words  *'  )'*  and 
*^  me^''  being  sometimes  equivalent,  and  sometimes  having  a  distinct 
meaiiing;  sometimes,  namely,  signifying  the  act  of  self-consciousness, 
sometimes  the  external  image  in  and  by  which  the  mind  represents  that 
act  to  itsoU,  the  result  and  symbol  of  its  individuality.  Now,  suppose  the 
direct  contrary  state,  and  >ou  will  have  a  distinct  Sv^^nse  of  the  connexion 
between  t^vo  conceptions,  without  that  sensation  of  such  connexion  which 
is  supplied  by  h.p.bit.  The  nvdnftels,  as  if  lie  nere  Jitandir.g  on  liis  head, 
thougn  he  cannot  but  see,  that  he  is  truly  standing  on  his  ^ect.  This,  as  a 
painful  sensL-ticni,  will  of  course  have  a  tendrncy  to  associatei^s/lf  with  the 
person  w'no  occasions  it:  even  as  persons,  who  h:  ve  been  by  painful 
means  restored  from  derangement,  are  known  to  feel  an  inv©lvuitary  djs- 
ilVe  towards  their  physician"^ 


«1 

sure  should  have  been  grounded  almost  by  each  different 
person  on  some  different  poem.  Among  those,  whose 
candour  and  judgment  I  estimate  highly,  J  distinctly  re- 
member six  who  expressed  iheir  objections  to  the  *'  Ly- 
rical Ballads,'  almost  in  the  same  words,  and  altogether 
to  the  same  purport,  at  the  same  time  admitting,  ihat  se- 
veral of  the  poems  had  given  them  great  pleasure  ;  and, 
strange  as  it  might  seem,  the  composition  which  one  had 
cited  as  execrable,  another  had  quoted  as  his  favourite. 
I  am  indeed  convinced,  in  my  or/n  mind,  that  could  the 
same  experiment  have  been  tried  with  these  volumes  as 
was  made  in  the  well-known  story  of  the  picture,  the  re- 
sult would  have  been  the  same  ;  the  parts  which  had  been 
covered  by  the  number  of  the  black  spots  on  the  one  day, 
would  be  found  equally  albo  lapide  notatae  on  the  suc- 
ceeding. 

However  this  may  be,  it  is  assuredly  hard  and  unjust  to 
fix  the  attention  on  a  few  separate  and  insulated  poems, 
with  as  much  aversion  as  it'  they  had  been  so  many 
plague-spots  on  the  whole  work,  instead  of  passing  tliera 
over  in  silence,  as  so  much  blank  paper,  or  leaves  of 
bookseller's  catalogue  ;  especially,  as  no  one  pretends  to 
have  found  immorality  or  indelicacy  ;  and  the  poems, 
therefore,  at  the  worst,  could  only  be  regarded  as  so  many 
light  or  inferior  coins  in  a  roleau  of  gold,  not  as  so  much 
alloy  in  a  weight  of  bullion.  A  friend  whose  talents  \ 
hold  in  the  highest  respect,  but  whos^  judgment  2iud  strong 
sound  sense  1  have  had  almost  continued  occasion  to  revere^ 
making  the  usual  complaints  to  me  concerning  both  the 
style  and  subjects  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  minor  poems.  I 
admitted  that  there  were  some  few  of  the  tales  and  inci- 
dents, in  which  I  could  not  myself  find  a  sufficient  cause 
for  their  having  been  recorded  in  metre,  i  mentioned 
"  Alice  Fell"  as  an  instance  ;  ''  nay,"  replied  my  friend, 
with  more  than  usual  quickness  of  manner,  *'  I  cannot 
agree  with  you  there  I  th:n  I  own  does  seem  to  me  a  re- 
markably pleasing  poem  '*  In  the  *'  Lyrical  Ballads' 
(for  my  expt^i'ience  doe^^  not  ennble  me  to  extend  the  re- 
mark equally  unqualified  to  the  (wo  vsubsequent  volumes) 
1  have  heard,  at  different  times,  and  from  difierent  indi- 
viduals, every  single  poem  extolled  and  reprobated  with 
the  exception  of  those  of  loftier  kind,  which,  as  was  before 
observed,  seem  to  have  won  universal  praise.     This  fact 


52 

of  itself  would  have  made  me  diffident  in  toy  censures, 
had  not  a  still  stronger  ground  been  furnished  by  the 
strange  contrast  of  the  beat  and  long  continuance  of  the 
opposition,  with  the  nature  of  the  faults  stated  as  justify- 
ing it.  The  seductive  faults,  the  dulcia  \^itia  of  Cowley, 
Marini,  or  Darwin,  might  reasonably  be  thought  capable 
of  corrupting  the  public  judgment  for  half  a  century,  and 
require  a  twenty  years'  war,  campaign  after  campaign,  in 
order  to  dethrrne  the  usurper,  and  re-eslablish  the  legiti- 
mate taste.  But  that  a  downright  simpleness,  under  the 
affectation  of  simplicity,  prosaic  words  in  feeble  metre, 
silly  thoughts  in  childish  phrases,  and  a  preference  of 
mean,  degrading,  or,  at  best,  trivial  associations  and  cha- 
racters, should  succeed  in  forming  a  school  of  imitators, 
a  company  of  almost  7'eUgio7is  admirers,  and  this  among 
young  men  of  ardent  minds,  liberal  education,  and  not 

"  with  academic  laurels  unbestowed  ;'* 

and  that  this  bare  and  bald  counterfeit  of  poetry,  which 
is  characterised  as  below  criticism,  should,  for  nearly 
twenty  years,  have  well-nigh  engrossed  criticism  as  the 
main,  if  not  the  only,  butt  of  review,  magazine,  pam- 
phlets, poem,  and  paragraph  ; — this  is,  indeed,  matter  of 
wonder  !  Of  yet  greater  i.^  it,  that  the  contest  should  still 
continue  as*  undecided  as  that  between  Bacchus  and  the 

*  Without,  however,  the  apprehensions  attributed  to  the  Pagan  refor- 
mer of  the  poetic  republic.  If  we  mav  judge  from  the  preface  to  the  re- 
cent collection  of  his  poems,  Mr.  W.  would  have  answered  with  Xan- 


And 
pretei 


Ka»  Tojcrfi^as;  SAN.  s/ia  A.',  aS^  £q:fovTi(ra. 

id  here  let  me  dare  hint  to  the  authors  of  the  numerous  parodies  and 
etended  imitations  of  Mr.  Wordsvvorth's  style,  that,  at  once  to  convey 
t  and  wi-dom  in  the  semblance  of  folly  and  dulness,  as  is  done  in  the 
clowns  and  fools,  nay,  even  in  the  Dogberry,  of  our  Shakspeare,  is, 
doubtless,  a  proof  of  genius  ;  or,  at  al!  events;  of  satiric  talent :  but  that 
the  attempt  to  ridicule  a  silly  and  childish  poem,  by  writing  another  still 
sillier  and  still  more  childish,  can  onl}  rrovc,  (if  it  prove  any  thing  at  all,) 
that  the  parodist  is  a  still  greated  blockhead  than  the  original  writer,  and, 
what  is  far  worse,  a  7nalignnnt  coxcomJj  to  boot.  The  talent  for  mimicry 
seems  strohiest  where  the  human  race  are  most  degraded.  The  poor, 
naked,  half  iiumaji  ravages  of  New  Holland,  were  found  excellent  mimics  : 
and  in  civilized  society,  minds  of  the  \er}  lowest  stamp  alone  satirize  br 
copying-  At  least  the  difterence,  w  hich  niust  blend  witn,  and  balance  the 
liKeness,  in  order  to  constitute  a  just  imitation,  existing*  here  merely  in 
caricature,  detracts  from  the  libeller's  heart,  without  adding  an  iota  to  the 
credit  of  hi*  understanding. 


53 

frogs  in  Aristophanes  ;  when  the  former  descended  to  the 
realms  of  the  departed  to  brine;  back  the  spirit  of  old  and 
genuine  poesy. 

X.     aXXa  ,aTiv  x£xja^(?yfc^a 
X'oTTccrov  Ti  (pa?i;7f  av  -nfiecr 
Xav5avn  5i  Ti;i£^aj 
3j£xfK£)(€^,  xoa|,  Jtoaf  •' 

A.       TSTOJ  7aj  8  VI)IT1C7fT£. 

X.     e5£  fifv  nuaj  cru  Travtcoj. 

A.     is5f  fifv  nfifij  7£  5n  /la 
«5£rroT£'  xEx^a^ojittJ  7ap 
xav  /i£  5ft  5i  -niiffaj, 
£coi  dv  i;;iu)v  fTTixjaTricro^  to)  Koa^  ■ 

X.    {i^=^£x£x£|,  KOAS,  KOAS  ! 


During  the  last  year  of  my  residence  at  Cambridge,  I 
became  acquainted  with  Mr.  Wordsworth's  first  publica- 
tions, entitled  ''  Descriptive  Sketches  ;"  and  sebJ.om,  if 
ever,  was  the  emergence  of  an  original  poetic  genius 
above  the  literary  horizon  more  evidently  announced. 
In  the  form,  style,  and  manner  of  the  whole  poem,  and 
in  the  structure  of  the  particular  lines  and  periods,  there 
is  an  harshness  and  an  acerbity  connected  and  combin- 
ed with  words  and  images  all  a-glow,  which  might  recall 
those  products  of  the  veoretable  world,  where  gorgeous 
blossoms  rise  out  of  the  hard  and  thorny  rind  and  shell, 
within  which  the  rich  fruit  was  elaborating.  The  lan- 
guage was  not  only  peculiar  and  strong,  but  at  times 
knotty  and  contorted,  as  by  its  own  impatient  strength  ; 
while  the  novelty  and  struggling  crowd  of  images,  acting 
in  conjunction  with  the  difficulties  of  the  style,  demand- 
ed always  a  greater  closeness  of  attention  than  poetry, 
(at  all   events,  than  descriptive  poetry,)   has  a  right  to 

Vol.  I.  6 


bi 

claim.  It  not  seldom,  therefore,  justified  the  complaint 
of  obscurity.  In  the  following  extract  I  have  sometimes 
fancied  that  I  saw  an  emblem  of  the  poem  itself,  and  of 
the  author's  genius  as  it  was  then  displayed. 

^*  'Tis  storm ;  and  hid  in  mist  from  hour  to  hour, 
All  day  the  floods  a  deepening-  murmur  pour  ; 
The  sky  is  veiled,  and  every  cheerful  sight: 
Dark  is  the  region  as  with  coming"  night ; 
And  yet  what  frequent  bursts  of  overpowering  light ; 
Triumphant  on  the  bosom  of  the  storm, 
Glances  the  fire-clad  eagle's  wheeling  form ; 
Eastward,  in  long  perspective  glittering,  shine 
The  wood-crowned  cliffs  that  o*er  the  lake  recline ; 
Wide  o'er  the  Alps  a  hundred  streams  unfold, 
At  once  to  pillars  turn'd  that  flame  with  gold ; 
Behind  his  sail  the  peasant  strives  to  shun 
The  West,  that  burns  like  one  dilated  sun, 
Where  in  a  mighty  crucible  expire 
The  mountains,  glowing  hot,  like  coals  of  fire.'* 

The  poetic  Psyche,  in  its  process  to  full  development, 
undergoes  as  many  changes  as  its  Greek  name-sake,  the 
butterfly.*  And  it  is  remarkable  how  soon  genius  clears 
and  purifies  itself  from  the  faults  and  errors  of  its  earliest 
products;  faults  which,  in  its  earliest  compositions,  are 
the  more  obtrusive  and  confluent  ;  because,  as  heteroge- 
neous elements  which  had  only  a  temporary  use,  they 
constitute  the  \evy  ferment  by  which  themselves  are  car- 
ried off.  Or  we  may  compare  them  to  some  diseases, 
ivhich  must  work  on  the  humours,  and  be  thrown  out  on 
the  surface,  in  order  to  secure  the  patient  from  their  fu- 
ture recurrence.  1  was  in  my  twenty- fourth  year  when 
1  had  the  happiness  of  kno\ving  Mr.  Wordsworth  person- 

*The  fact,  that  in  Gi-eok  P:-\-chp  i?  the  common  nnme  for  the  soni,  and 
the  buttcrliy,  is  thus  alluded  torn  tlie  fellowing  stanza  from  an  unpublished 
)H)em  of  the  author  : 

^'  The  butterfly  the  ancient  Grecians  made 
The  soul's  fair  emblem,  and  its  only  name — 
But  of  the  soul,  escaped  the  slavish  "trade 
Of  m.ortal  life  !  For  m  this  earthly  frame 
Our's  is  the  reptile's  lot,  much  toil,  much  blame, 
Manifold  motions  makin;^  little  speed, 
And  to  deform  aud  kill  the  things  whereon  we  f^ed.'^ 

S.  T.  €. 


55 

ally,  ^nd  while  memory  lasts,  I  shall  hardly  forget  the 
sudden  effect  produced  on  my  mind,  by  his  recitation  of 
a  manuscript  poem,  which  still  remains  unpublished,  but 
of  which  the  stanza,  and  tone  of  style,  were  the  same  as 
those  of  the  *'  Female  Vagrant,'-  as  originally  printed  ia 
the  first  volume  of  the  ''  Lyrical  Ballads."  There  was 
here  no  mark  of  strained  thought  or  forced  diction,  no 
croud  or  turbulence  of  imagery;  and,  as  the  poet  hath 
himself  well  described  in  his  lines  "  on  revisiting  the 
Wye,"  manly  reflection,  and  human  associations,  had 
given  both  variety  and  an  additional  interest  to  natural 
objects,  which,  in  the  passion  and  appetite  of  the  first 
love,  they  had  seemed  to  him  neither  to  Heed  or  permit. 
The  occasional  obscurities  which  had  risen  from  an  im- 
perfect controul  over  the  resources  of  his  native  language^ 
had  almost  wholly  disappeared,  together  with  that  worse 
defect  of  arbitrary  and  illogical  phrases,  at  once  hack- 
neyed and  fantastic,  which  hold  so  distinguished  a  place 
in  the  technique  of  ordinary  poetry,  and  vvill,  more  or 
Je?s,  alloy  the  earlier  poems  of  the  truest  genius,  unless 
the  attention  has  been  specifically  directed  to  their  worth- 
lessness  and  incongruity.*  1  did  not  perceive  any  thing 
particular  in  the  mere  style  of  the  poem  alluded  to  dur- 
ing its  recitation,  except,  indeed,  such  difference  as  was 
not  separable  from  the  thought  and  manner ;  and  the 
Speucerian  stanza,  which  always,  more  or  less,  recalls  to 
the  reader's  mind  Spencer's  own  style,  would  doubtless 
have  authorized,  in  my  then  opinion,  a  more  frequent 
descent  to  the  phrases  of  ordinary  life  than  could,  with- 

*  Mr.  VVords worth,  even  in  his  tw-o earliest,  "the  Evening  Walk  and 
the  descriptive  Sketches,"  is  more  free  from  this  latter  defect  than  most 
of  the  young-  poets,  his  contemporaries.  It  may,  however,  be  exempli- 
fied—together with  the  harsh  and  obscure  construction,  in  which  he  mor^ 
often  offended— in  the  following  lines  : 

"  'Mid  stormy  vapours  ever  driving  by, 
Where  ospreys,  cormorants,  and  herons  cry; 
Where  hardly  given  the  hopeless  waste  to  cheer, 
Denied  the  bread  of  life  the  foodful  ear, 
Dwindles  the  pear  on  autumn's  latest  spray, 
And  apple  sickens  pale  in  summer'^  ray  ; 
JS'en  here  content  has  fixed  her  smiling  reign 
With  independence,  child  of  high  disdain.'^ 

I  hope  I  need  not  say,  that  I  have  quoted  these  lines  for  no  other  purposd 
a^/"  il?  ^^^^^  ^y  meaning  fully  understood.  It  is  to  be  regretted  tliat 
Mr.  Wordsworth  has  not  republished  these  two  poems  entire. 


56 

out  an  ill  effect,  have  been  hazarded  in  the  heroic  couplet. 
It  was  not,  however,  the  freedom  from  false  taste,  whe- 
ther as  to  common  defects,  or  to  those  more  properly  his 
own,  which  made  so  unusual  an  impression  on  my  feel- 
ings irnmediately,  and  subsequently  on  my  judgment.  It 
was  the  union  of  deep  feeling  with  profound  thought ;  the 
tine  balance  of  truth  in  observing,  with  the  imaginative 
faculty  in  modifying  the  objects  observed  ;  and,  above  all, 
the  original  gift  of  spreading  the  tone,  the  atmosphere^ 
and.  with  it,  the  depth  and  height  of  the  ideal  world 
around  forms,  incidents,  and  situations,  of  which,  for  the 
common  view,  custom  had  bedimmed  all  the  lustre,  had 
dried  up  the  sparkle  and  the  dew  drops  *'  To  find  no 
contradiction  in  the  union  of  old  and  new  ;  to  contem- 
plate the  ANCIENT  of  days  and  all  his  works  with  feel- 
ings as  fresh  as  if  all  had  then  sprang  forth  at  the  first 
creative  fiat  ;  characterizes  the  mind  that  feels  the  riddle 
of  the  world,  and  may  help  to  unravel  it.  To  carry  oa 
the  feelings  of  childhood  into  the  powers  of  manhood  ; 
to  combine  the  child's  sense  of  wonder  and  novelty  with 
the  appearances  which  every  day,  for,  perhaps,  forty 
years,  had  rendered  familiar  ; 

*'  With  sun  and  moon  and  stars  throughout  the  year, 

And  man  and  woman  ;" 

this  is  the  character  and  privilege  of  genius,  and  one  of 
the  marks  which  distinguish  genius  from  talents.  And, 
therefore,  it  is  the  prime  merit  of  genius,  and  its  most  un- 
equivocal mode  of  manifestation,  so  to  represent  familiar 
objects  as  to  awaken  in  the  minds  of  others  a  kindred 
feeling  concerning  them,  and  that  freshness  of  sensation 
which  is  the  constant  accompaniment  of  mental,  no  less 
than  of  bodily  convalescence.  Who  has  not  a  thousand 
times  seen  snow  fall  on  water  ?  Who  has  not  watched  it 
with  a  new  feeling  from  the  time  that  he  has  read  Burn's 
comparison  of  sensual  pleasure, 

*'  To  snow  that  falls  upon  a  river, 

A  moment  white — then  gone  for  ever  !^' 

"  In  poems,  equally  as  in  philosophic  disquisitions,  ge- 
nius produces  the  strongest  impressions  of  novelty,  while 
it  rescues  the  most  admitted  truths  from  the  impotence 
caused  by  the  very  circumstance  of  their  universal   ad- 


51 

mission.  Truths,  of  all  others  the  most  awful  and  mys- 
terious,  yet  being;,  at  the  same  lime,  of  universal  interest^ 
are  too  often  considered  as  so  true,  that  they  lose  all  the 
life  and  efficiency  of  truth,  and  lie  bed-ridden  in  the  dor- 
mitory of  the  soul,  side  by  side  with  the  most  despised 
and  exploded  errors,"  The  Friend,*  page  76,  No.  5, 
This  excellence,  which,  in  all  Mr.  Wordsworth's  wri- 
tings, is  more  or  less  predominant,  and  which  constitutes 
the  character  of  his  mind,  I  no  sooner  felt  than  I  sought 
to  understand.  Repeated  meditations  led  me  first  to  sus- 
pect, (and  a  more  intimate  analysis  of  the  human  facul- 
ties, their  appropriate  marks,  functions,  and  effects,  ma- 
tured my  conjecture  into  full  conviction,)  that  fancy  and 
imagination  were  two  distinct  and  widely  different  facul- 
ties, instead  of  being,  according  to  the  general  belief, 
either  two  names  with  one  meaning,  or,  at  furthest,  the 
lower  and  higher  degree  of  one  and  the  same  power.  If 
is  not,  I  own,  easy  to  conceive  a  more  opposite  transla- 
tion of  the  Greek  phantasia  than  the  Latin  imaginatio  ; 
but  it  is  equally  true,  that  in  all  societies  there  exists  an 
instinct  of  growth,  a  certain  collective,  unconscious  good 
sense,   working   progressively   to    desynonymizej    those 

*  As  "  the  Friend"  was  printed  on  stampt sheets,  and  sent  only  by  the 
post,  to  a  very  h'mited  numoer  of  siubscribers,  the  author  has  felt  less  ob- 
jection to  quote  from  it,  though  a  work  of  his  own.  To  the  public  at 
larg-e,  indeed,  it  is  the  same  as  a  volume  in  manuscript. 

f  This  is  effected  either  by  g:iving  to  the  one  word  a  j^eneral,  and  to 
the  other  an  exclusive  use :  as,  "  to  put  on  the  back,"  and  "  to  endorse  ;'* 
cr,  by  an  actual  distinction  of  meanings,  as,  "  naturalist,"  and  '•  physi- 
(ian:"  or,  by  difl'erence  of  relation,  as,  "  I,"  and  "me;"  (each  of  which 
liic  rustics  of  our  different  provinces  still  use  in  all  the  cases  singular  of 
the  first  personal  pronoun.)  Even  the  mere  difference,  or  corruption,  in 
tiie  primwiciation  of  the  same  word,  if  it  have  become  g^eneral,  will  pro- 
duce a  new  word  nilh  a  distinct  signification  ;  thus,  "  pronertv,"  and 
"propriety;"  the  latter  of  which,  even  to  the  time  of  Gliarles  H,,  was 
the  nriilen  word  ♦or  all  the  senses  of  both.  Thus,  too,  "  mister,"  and 
"  master,"  both  hasty  pronunciations  of  the  same  word,  "  magister  :*' 
"mistress,"  and  "  missj"  "  if,"  and  "  give,"  &c.  &c.  There  is  a  sort  of 
minim  immortal,  among  the  animalcula  infusoria,  which  has  not,  natural^ 
ly,  either  birth  or  death,  absolute  bcainning  or  absolute  end;  for,  at  a 
certain  period,  a  small  point  appears  on  its  back,  which  deepens  and 
lengthens  till  the  creature  divides  into  two^  and  the  same  process  recom- 
mejices  in  each  of  the  halves  now  become  integral.  This  may  be  a  fainci' 
ful,  but  it  is  by  no  means  a  bad  emblem  of  the  formation  of  words,  and  may 
facilitate  the  conception,  how  immense  a  nomenclature  may  be  organized 
from  a  few  simple  sounds  by  rational  beings  in  a  social  state.  For  each 
new  application  or  excitement  of  the  same  sound,  will  call  forth  a  difi'erent 
sensation,  which  cam  ot  but  atl'ect  the  pronunciation.  The  after  r- (ollec- 
tion  of  the  sound,  without  the  same  vivid  sensation,  will  modify  it  still  fur-- 
tlivr ;  till,  at  bijgth,  all  trace  of  the  original  likeaess  is  worn  away. 

5* 


58 

words,  originally  of  the  same  meaning,  which  the  con- 
flux of  dialects  had  supplied  lo  the  more  homogeneous 
lauiiuages,  as  the  Greek  and  German  :  and  which  the 
safije  cause,  joined  with  accidents  of  translation  from  ori- 
ginal works  of  different  countries,  occasion  in  mixt  lan- 
guages like  our  own.  The  first  and  most  important 
point  to  be  proved,  is,  that  two  conceptions  perfectly  dis- 
tinct are  confused  under  one  and  the  same  word,  and, 
(this  dore,)  to  appr  ipriato  that  word  exclusively  to  one 
meaning,  and  the  synonyme,  (sliould  there  be  one,)  to  the 
other-  But  if,  (as  will  be  often  the  case  in  the  arts  and 
sciences,)  no  sj^nonyme  exists,  we  must  either  invent  or 
borrow  a  word.  In  the  present  instance,  the  appropria- 
tion had  already  begun,  and  been  legitimated  in  the  de- 
rivative adjective  :  A^ilton  had  a  highly  imaginative^ 
Cowley  a  yery  fanciful  mind-  If,  therefore,  I  should 
succeed  in  establishing  the  actual  existences  of  two  fa- 
culties i:enerally  different,  the  nomenclature  would  be  at 
once  determined.  To  the  t^aculty  by  which  I  had  cha- 
racterized Milton,  we  should  confine  the  term  iinagrna- 
Hon  ;  while  the  other  would  he  contra-distinguished  as 
fancy.  Now,  were  it  once  fully  ascertained,  that  this 
division  is  no  less  ^rounded  in  nature  than  that  of  delirium 
from  mania,  or  Ot way's 

"  Lutes,  lobsters,  seas  of  milk,  and  ships  of  amber,*' 

from  Shakspeare's 

**  What,  have  his  daughters  brought  him  to  this  pass  r" 

or  from  the  preceding  apostrophe  to  the  elements  ;  the 
theory  of  the  fine  arts,  and  of  poetry  in  particular,  could 
jiot.  !  thought,  but  derive  some  additional  and  import- 
ant light-  It  would,  in  its  immediate  effects,  furnish  a 
torch  of  guidance  to  the  philosophical  critic;  and,  uili- 
mately,  to  the  poet  himself.  In  energetic  minds,  truth 
soon  changes,  by  domestication,  into  power ;  and  from  di- 
recting in  the  discrimination  and  apprc-isa!  of  the  product, 
becomes  influencive  in  the  production.  To  adniire  on 
principle,  is  the  only  way  to  imitate  without  loss  of  ori- 
ginality. 

It  has  been  already  hinted,  that  metaphysics  and  psy- 
chology have  long  been  my  hobby-horse.     But  to  have  a 


59 

hobby-horse,  and  to  be  vain  of  it,  are  so  commonly  found 
together,  that  they  pass  ahnost  for  the  same.  I  trust, 
therefore,  that  there  will  be  more  good  humour  than  con- 
tempt, in  the  smile  with  which  the  reader  chastises  my 
self  complacency,  if  I  confess  myself  uncertain,  whether 
the  satisfaction  from  the  perception  of  a  truth  new  to  my- 
self, may  not  have  been  rendered  more  poignant,  by  the 
conceit  that  it  would  be  equally  so  to  the  public.  There 
was  a  time,  certainly,  m  which  I  took  some  little  credit 
to  myself,  in  the  belief  that  1  had  been  the  first  of  my 
countrymen  who  had  pointed  out  the  diverse  meaning  of 
which  the  two  terms  were  capable,  and  analyzed  the  fa- 
culties to  which  they  should  be  appropriated.  Mr.  W, 
Taylor's  recent  volumes  of  synonymes  I  have  not  yet 
seen  ;*  but  his  specification  of  the  terms  in  question  has 
been  clearly  shown  to  be  both  insullftcient  and  erroneous 
by  Mr.  Wordsworth,  in  the  preface  added  to  the  late  col« 

*  I  ought  to  havr,  added,  with  the  exception  of  a  single  sheet  which  I 
accideutally  met  with  at  the  printer's.  Even  from  this  scanty  specimen, 
I  found  it  impossible  to  doubt  the  talent,  or  not  to  admire  the  mgenuity  of 
the  author.  'That  his  distinctions  were,  for  the  greater  oart,  unsatisfac- 
tory to  my  mind,  proves  nothing  against  their  accuracy  :  nut  it  may  possi- 
bly be  serviceable  to  him  in  case  of  a  second  edition,  if  I  take  this  oppor- 
tunity of  suggesting  the  query,  whether  he  may  not  have  been  occasional- 
ly misled,  by  having  assuniecl,  as  to  me  be  appeared  to  have  done,  the 
non-existence  of  any  absolute  synonymes  in  our  language  ?  ?vow,  I  cannot 
but  think,  that  there  are  many  whi^h  remain  for  our  posterity  to  distin- 
guish and  appropriate,  and  which  I  regard  as  so  much  reversionary  wealth 
in  our  mother  tongue.  When  two  distinct  meanings  are  confounded  un- 
der one  or  more  words,  (and  such  must  be  the  case,  as  sure  as  our  know- 
ledge is  progressive,  and,  of  course,  imperfect)  erroneous  consequences 
will  be  clrawn,  and  what  is  true  in  one  sense  of  the  word,  will  be  affirmed 
as  true  in  toto.  Men  of  research,  startled  by  the  consequences,  seek  in 
the  things  themselves  (whether  in  or  out  of  the  mind)  for  a  knowledge 
of  the  fact,  and  having  disrovered  the  difference,  remove  the  equivocation 
either  by  the  substitution  of  a  new  word,  or  by  the  appropriation  of  one  of 
the  two  or  more  words,  that  had  before  been  used  promiscuously.  When 
this  distinction  has  been  so  naturalized  and  of  such  general  currency  that 
the  language  itself  does,  as  it  were,  think  for  us,  ^like  the  sliding  rule, 
which  is  the  mechanic's  safe  substitute  for  arithmetical  knowledge,)  we 
then  say,  that  it  is  evident  to  common  sense.  Common  sense,  therefore, 
differs  in  different  ages.  What  was  born  and  christened  in  the  schools, 
passes  bv  degrees  into  the  world  at  lar^e,  and  becomes  the  property  of 
the  maritet  and  the  tea-table.  At  least,  I  can  discover  no  otlicr  meajliag 
of  the  term,  commm  sense,  if  it  is  to  convey  any  specific  difference  from 
sense  and  judgment  in  genere,  and  where  it  is  not  used  scholastically  for 
the  wdversal  reason.  Thus,  in  the  reign  of  Charles  11.,  the  philosophic 
world  was  called  to  arms  by  the  moral  sophisms  of  Ilohbs,  and- the  ablest 
writers  exe;ted  themselves'  in  the  detection  of  an  error  which  a  school- 
boy would  now  be  able  to  confute  by  the  mere  recollection,  that  compul- 
sion and  obligation  conveyed  two  ideas  perfectly  disparate,  and  that  what 
appertained  to  the  one,  had-  been  falsely  transferrecl  to  the  other,-  by  a 
mere  confusioQ  of  terciss 


60 

lection  of  his  ^*  Lyrical  Ballads  and  other  poems.'*  The 
explanation  which  Mr.  Wordsworth  has  himself  given, 
will  be  found  to  differ  from  mine,  chiefly,  perhaps,  as  our 
objects  are  different.  It  could  scarcely,  indeed,  happen 
otherwise,  from  the  advantage  I  have  enjoyed  of  frequent 
conversation  with  him  on  a  subject  to  which  a  poem  of 
his  own  first  directed  my  attention,  and  my  conclusions 
concerning  which,  he  had  made  more  lucid  to  myself  by 
many  happy  instances  drawn  from  the  operation  of  na- 
tural objects  on  the  mind.  But  it  was  Mr.  Wordsworth's 
purpose  to  consider  the  influences  of  fancy  and  imagina- 
tion as  they  are  manifested  in  poetry,  and,  from  the  dif- 
ferent effects,  to  conclude  their  diversity,  in  kind  ;  while 
it  is  my  object  to  investigate  the  sem.inal  principle,  and 
then,' from  the  kind,  to  deduce  the  degree.  My  friend  has 
drawn  a  masterly  sketch  of  the  branches,  with  their  poetic 
fruitage.  I  wish  to  add  the  trunk,  and  even  the  roots, 
as  far  as  they  lift  themselves  above  ground,  and  are  visi- 
ble to  the  naked  eye  of  our  common  consciousness. 

Yet,  even  in  this  attempt,  I  am  aware  that  I  shall  be 
obliged  to  draw  more  largely  on  the  reader's  attention,. 
than  so  immethodicai  a  miscellany  can  authorize  ;  when 
in  such  a  work  {the  Ecclesiastical  Policy)  of  such  a  mind 
as  Hooker's,  the  judicious  author,  though  no  less  admiya- 
ble  for  the  perspicuity  than  for  the  port  and  dignity  of  his 
language  ;  and  though  he  wrote  for  men  of  learning  in  a 
learned  age  ;  saw,  nevertheless,  occasion  to  anticipate  and 
guard  against  ''  complaints  of  obscurity,"  as  often  as  he 
was  to  trace  his  subject  "  to  the  highest  well-spring  and^ 
fountain."  Which,  (continues  he,)  ''  because  men  are 
not  accustomed  to,  the  pains  we  take  are  more  needful,  a 
great  deal,  than  acceptable  ;  and  the  matters  we  handle 
seem,  by  reason  of  newness,  (till  the  mind  grow  better- 
acquainted  \vith  theun,'  dark  and  intricate."  I  would 
gladly,  therefore,  .-pare  both  myself  and  others  this  labour, 
if  I  knew  how  without  it  to  present  an  intelligible  state- 
ment of  my  poetic  creed;  not  as  my  opinions,  which 
"weigh  for  nothing,  but  as  deductions  from  established  pre- 
mises, conveyed  in  such  a  form  as  is  calculated  either  to 
effect  a  fundamental  conviction,  or  to  receive  a  funda- 
mentaj  cont\Uation.  If  1  may  dare  once  more  adopt  the^ 
words  of  Mooker,  *'  they,  unto  whom  we  shall  seem  te- 
dious, are  in  no  wis-e  injured  by  us,  because  it  is  in  their 


61 

own  hands  to  spare  that  labour,  which  they  are  not  wil- 
ling to  endure."  Those  at  least,  let  me  be  permitted  to 
add,  who  have  taken  so  much  pains  to  render  me  ridicu- 
lous for  a  perversion  of  taste,  and  have  supported  the 
charge  by  attributing  strange  notions  to  me  on  no  other 
authority  than  their  own  conjectures,  owe  it  to  themselves, 
as  well  as  to  me,  not  to  refuse  their  attention  to  my  own 
statement  of  the  theory,  which  1  do  acknowledge  ;  or 
shrink  from  the  trouble  of  examining  the  grounds  on 
which  I  rest  it,  or  the  arguments  which  1  offer  in  its  jus- 
tification. 


62 


CHAPTER  V. 

On  the  law  of  association — Its  history  traced  from 
Aristotle  to  Hartley, 

There  have  been  men  in  all  ages,  who  have  been  in>- 
pelled,  as  by  an  instinct,  to  propose  their  own  nature  as  a 
problem,  and  who  devote  their  attempts  to  its  solution. 
The  first  step  was  to  construct  a  table  of  distinctions, 
which  thev  seem  to  have  formed  on  the  principle  of  the 
absence  or  presence  of  the  will.  Our  various  sensations, 
perceptions,  and  movements  were  classed  as  active  or 
passive,  or  as  media  partaking  of  both.  A  still  finer  dis- 
tinction was  soon  established  between  the  voluntary  and 
the  spontaneous.  In  our  perceptions  we  seem  to  our- 
selves merely  passive  to  an  external  power,  whether  as  a 
mirror  reflecting  the  landscape,  or  as  a  blank  canvas  on 
which  some  unknown  hand  paints  it.  For  it  is  worthy 
of  notice,  that  the  latter,  or  the  system  of  idealism,  may 
be  traced  to  sources  equally  remote  with  the  former,  or 
tnaterialism  ;  and  Berkeley  can  boast  an  ancestry  at  least 
as  venerable  as  Gassendi  or  Hobbs.  These  conjectures, 
however,  concerning  the  mode  in  which  our  perceptions 
originated,  could  not  alter  the  natural  difference  in  things 
and  thoughts  In  the  former,  the  cause  appeared  wholly 
external ;  while  in  the  latter,  sometimes  our  will  interfered 
as  the  producing  or  determining  cause,  and  sometimes  our 
nature  seemed  to  act  by  a  mechanism  of  its  own,  without 
any  conscious  efibrt  of  the  will,  or  even  against  it.  Our 
inward  experiences  were  thus  arranged  in  three  separate 
classes,  the  passive  sense,  or  what  the  school-men  call 
the  merely  receptive  quality  of  the  mind  ;  the  voluntary  ; 
and  the  spontaneous,  which  holds  the  middle  place  be- 
tween both  But  it  is  not  in  human  nature  to  meditate 
on  any  mode  of  action,  without  inquiring  after  the  law 
that  governs  it ;  and  in  the  explanation  of  the  spontaneous 
movements  of  our  being,  the  metaphysician  took  the  lead 
of  the  anatomist  and  natural  philosopher.  In  Egypt,  Pa- 
lestine, Greece,  and  India,  the  analysis  of  the  mind  had 
reached   its  noon  find  manhood,  while  experimental  re- 


63 

search  was  still  in  its  dawn  and  infancy.  For  many, 
very  many  centuries,  it  has  been  difhcult  to  advance  a 
nevv  truth,  or  even  a  new  error,  in  the  phiJo-ophy  of  the 
intellect  or  morals.  With  regard,  however,  to  the  laws 
that  direct  the  spontaner)us  movements  of  thought,  and  the 
principle  of  their  intellectual  mechanism,  there  exists,  it 
has  bten  asserted,  an  important  exception,  most  honoura- 
ble to  the  moderns,  and  in  the  merit  of  »vhich  our  own 
country  claims  the  largest  share.  Sir  James  Mackintosh 
(who,  amid  the  variety  of  his  talents  and  attainments,  is 
not  of  less  repute  for  the  depth  and  accuracy  of  his  phi- 
losophical inquiries,  than  for  the  eloquence  with  which 
he  is  said  to  render  their  most  ditlicult  results  perspicuous, 
and  the  driest  attractive)  affirmed,  in  the  lectures  deliver- 
ed by  him  at  Lincoln's  Inn  Hall,  that  the  law  of  associa- 
tion, as  established  in  the  contemporaneity  of  the  original 
impressions,  formed  the  basis  of  all  true  phsychology  ; 
and  any  ontological  or  metaphysical  science,  not  contained 
in  such  (i.  e.  empirical)  phsychology,  was  but  a  w^eb  of 
abstractions  and  generalizations.  Of  this  prolific  truth, 
of  tnis  great  fundamental  law,  he  declared  Hobbs  to  have 
been  the  original  discoverer,  while  its  full  application  to 
the  whole  intellectual  system  we  owe  to  David  Hartley  ;-• 
who  stood  in  the  same  relation  to  Hobbs,  as  Newton  to 
Kepler  ;  the  law  of  association  being  that  to  the  mind, 
which  gravitation  is  to  matter. 

Of  the  former  clause  in  this  assertion,  as  it  respects  the 
comparative  merits  of  the  ancient  metaphysicians,  inclu- 
ding their  commentators,  the  school  men,  and  of  the  mo- 
dern French  and  British  philosophers,  from  Hobbs  to 
Hume,  Hartley  and  Condeilac,  this  is  not  the  place  to 
speak,  ^'o  wide  indeed  is  the  chasm  between  this  gen- 
tleman's philosophical  creed  and  mine,  that  so  far  from 
being  able  to  join  hands,  we  could  scarce  make  our  voices 
intelligible  to  each  other:  and  to  bridge  it  over,  would 
require  more  time,  skill,  and  power,  than  I  believe  myself 
to  possess,  Bui  the  latter  clause  involves  for  the  greater 
part  a  mere  question  of  fact  and  history,  and  the  accuracy 
of  the. statement  is  to  be  tried  by  documents  rather  than 
reasoning. 

First,  then,  I  deny  Hobbs's  claim  in  toto  :  for  he  had 
been  anticipated  by  Des  Cartes,  whose  work  ''  De  Me-ho- 
io"  preceded  Hobbs's  "  De  Natura  Humana,"   by  more 


64 

than  a  year.  But  what  is  of  much  more  importance, 
Hobbs  builds  nothing  on  the  principle  which  he  had  an- 
nounced. He  doen  not  even  announce  it,  as  differing  in 
any  respect  from  the  general  laws  of  material  motion  and 
impact:  nor  was  it,  indeed,  possible  for  him  so  to  do, 
compatibly  with  his  system,  which  was  exclusively  mate- 
rial and  mechanical.  Far  otherwise  is  it  with  Des  Cartes ; 
greatly  as  he  too,  in  his  after  writings,  (and  still  more 
egregiously  his  followers,  De  la  Forge,  and  others,)  ob- 
scured the  truth  by  their  attempts  to  explain  it  on  the  the- 
ory of  nervous  fluids  and  material  configurations.  But 
in  his  interesting  work  "  De  Methodo,"  Des  Cartes  re- 
lates the  circumstance  which  first  led  him  to  meditate  on 
this  subject,  and  which  since  then  has  been  often  noticed 
and  employed  as  an  instance  and  illustration  of  the  law. 
A  child  who,  with  its  eyes  bandaged,  had  lost  several  of 
his  fingers  by  amputation,  continued  to  complain  for  many 
days  successively  of  pains,  now  in  his  joint,  and  now  in 
that  of  the  very  fingers  which  had  been  cut  off.  Des 
Cartes  was  led  by  this  incident  to  reflect  on  the  uncer- 
tainty with  which  we  attribute  any  particular  place  to  any 
inward  pain  or  uneasiness,  and  proceeded,  after  long  con- 
sideration, to  establish  it  as  a  general  law,  that  contem- 
poraneous impressions,  whether  images  or  sensations,  re- 
cal  each  other  mechanically.  On  this  principle,  as  a 
ground  work,  he  built  up  the  whole  system  of  human  lan- 
guage, as  one  continued  process  of  association.  He  show- 
ed in  what  sense  not  only  general  terms,  but  generic 
images,  (under  the  name  of  abstract  ideas, )actually  exist- 
ed, and  in  what  consists  their  nature  and  power.  As  one 
word  may  become  the  general  exponent  of  many,  so,  by 
association,  a  simple  image  may  represent  a  whole  class. 
But  in  truth,  Hobbs  himself  makes  no  claims  to  any  dis- 
covery, and  introduces  this  law  of  association,  or,  (in  his 
own  language,)  discursus  mentalis,  as  an  admitted  fact,  in 
the  solution  alone  of  which  this,  by  causes  purely  physio- 
logical, he  arrogates  any  originality.  His  system  is  briefly 
this  ;  whenever  the  senses  are  impinged  on  by  external 
objects,  whether  by  the  rays  of  light  reflected  from  them, 
or  by  effluxes  of  their  finer  particles,  there  results  a  cor- 
respondent motion  of  the  innermost  and  subtlest  organs. 
This  motion  constitutes  a  representation^  and  there  re- 
mains an  impression  of  the  same,  or  a  certain  disposition 


65 

to  repeat  the  same  motion.  Whenever  we  feel  several 
objects  at  the  same  time,  the  hnpressions  that  are  left  (or, 
in  the  language  of  Mr.  Hume,  the  ideas)  are  linked  to- 
gether VVhenever,  therefore,  any  one  of  the  movements 
which  constitute  a  complex  impression,  are  renewed 
through  the  senses,  the  others  succeed  mechanically.  It 
foHow.^of  necessity,  therefore,  that  Hobbs,  as  well  as  Hart-* 
ley.  and  all  others  who  derive  association  from  the  con- 
nexion and  interdependence  of  the  supposed  matter,  the 
movements  o  which  constitute  our  thoughts,  must  have 
reduced  all  its  forms  to  the  one  law  of  time.  But  even 
the  merit  of  announcing  this  law  with  philosophic  preci- 
sion cannot  be  fairly  conceded  to  him.  For  the  objects 
of  any  two  ideas*  need  not  have  co-existed  in  the  same 
sensation  in  order  to  become  mutually  associable.  The 
same  result  will  follow,  when  one  only  of  the  two  ideas 

*  I  here  use  the  word  "  id^a"  in  Mr.  Hume's  sense,  on  account  of  its 
g-enera!  currenc}"  among  the  En^rlish  metaphysicians,  thoug']i  ag:ainst  my 
own  JL:d2:ment;  for  I  believe  that  the  vague  use  of  this  word  has  been  the 
caus^"  of  mui  h  error  and  moi'e  confusion.  The  word,  Idea,  in  its  original 
sense,  as  u^f  d  ])y  Pindar,  Aristophanes,  and  in  the  gospel  of  Matthew,  re- 
presented the  visual  abstraction  of  a  distant  object,  when  we  see  the 
whole  without  distinguishing  its  parts.  Plato  adopted  it  as  a  technical 
term,  and  as  the  antithesis  to  EioooAa,  or  sensuous  images  ;  the  transient 
and  perishable  emblems,  or  mental  words,  of  ideas.  The  ideas  tlicm- 
selves  he  considered  as  mysterious  powers,  living,  seminal,  formative,  and 
exempt  from  time.  In  this  sense  the  word  became  the  property  of  the 
Platonic  school :  and  it  seldom  occurs  in  Aristotle,  without  some  such 
phrase  annexed  to  it,  as  according  to  Plato,  or  as  Plato  says.  Our  En2"lish 
writers  to  the  end  of  Charles  2nd's  reign,  or  somewhat  later,  employed  it 
either  in  the  original  sense,  Oi'  platomcally,  or  in  a  sense  nearly  corres- 
pondent to  our  present  use  of  the  substantive,  Ideal,  always,  however,  op- 
posing it,  more  or  less,  to  image,  whether  of  present  or  absent  objects. 
The  reader  will  not  be  displeased  with  the  following  interesting  exempli- 
fication from  bishop  Jeremy  Taylor.  "  St.  Lewis  the  king  sent  Ivo  bishop 
of  Chartres  on  an  embasej'^,  and  he  told,  that  he  met  a  grave  and  state- 
ly matron  on  the  way  with  a  censer  of  fire  in  one  hand,  and  a  vess^^l  oi 
water  in  the  other;  and  observing  her  to  have  a  melancholy,  religious, 
and  phantastic  deportment  and  look,  he  asked  her  what  those  symbols 
meant,  and  what  she  meant  to  do  with  her  fire  and  water;  she  answered, 
my  purpose  is  with  the  fire  to  burn  paradise,  and  with  my  water  to 
quench  tWQ  flames  of  hell,  that  men  may  serve  God  purely  for  the  love  of 
Cod.  But  wc  rarcl}  meet  with  such  s'pirits,  wluch  love  virtue  so  meta- 
physically as  to  ahsircrt  her  from  all  sensible  compositions^  and  love  the  jpurity 
(]f  the  idea/*'*  Dea  Cartes  having  introduced  into  his  philosophy  the  fanci- 
ful hypothesis  of  maierial  iAeas^  or  certain  configurations  oi"  the  brain, 
which  v/e re  as  so  memy  moulds  to  the  influxes  of  the  extern3l  world; 
Mr.  Locke  adonted  the*  term,  but  extended  its  signification  to  whatever  is 
the  immediate  oojectof  the  mind's  attention  or  consciousness.  Mr.  Hume, 
distinguishing  those  representations  which  are  accompanied  with  a  sense 
of  a  present  object,  f^om  tho?e  reproduced  by  the  mind  itself,  designated 
the  former bv  impressionsi  and  connned  the  word  idea  to  the  latter. 

Vol.  1.  6 


66 

bas  been  represented  by  the  senses,  and  the  other  by  the 
memory. 

Long,  however,  before  either  Hobbs  or  Des  Cartes, 
the  Luv  of  association  had  been  defined,  and  its  important 
functions  set  forth  by  Mehmchthon,  Ammerbach,  and  Lu- 
dovicus  Vives  ;  more  especially  by  the  last.  Phantasia, 
it  is  to  be  noticed,  is  employed  by  Vives  to  express  the 
mental  power  of  comprehension,  or  the  active  function  of 
the  mind  ;  and  imaginatio  for  the  receptivity  (vis  recep- 
tiva)  of  impressions,  or  for  the  passive  perception.  The 
power  of  combination  he  appropriates  to  the  former: — 
*'  quQS  singula  et  simpliciter  acceperat  imaginatio,  ea  con- 
jnngit  et  disgungit  phantasia."  And  the  law  by  which 
the  thoughts  are  spontaneously  presented  follows  thus  : 
'*  quiB  simul  sunt  a  phnntasa  comprehensa  si  alterutnim 
occurrat,  solet  secum  alterum  representare."  To  time, 
therefore,  he  subordinates  all  the  other  exciting  causes  of 
association.  The  soul  proceeds  "  a  causa  ad  effectum, 
ab  hoc  ad  instrumentum,  a  parte  ad  totum  ;"  thence  to  the 
place,  from  place  to  person,  and  from  this  to  whatever 
preceded  or  followed,  all  as  being  parts  of  a  total  impres- 
sion, each  of  which  may  recal  the  other.  The  apparent 
springs  "  Saltus  vel  transitus  etiam  longisimos,"  he  ex- 
plains by  the  same  thought  having  been  a  component 
part  of  two  or  more  total  impressions.  Thus  "  ex  Scipi- 
one  venio  incogitationem  potentiae  Turcicas  proper  victo- 
rias ejus  in  ea  parte  Asins  in  qua  regnabat  Antiochus." 

But  from  Vives  I  pass  at  once  to  the  source  of  his  doc- 
trines, and  (as  far  as  we  can  judge  from  the  remains  yet 
^extant  of  Greek  philosophy)  as  to  the  first,  so  to  the  fullest 
and  most  perfect  enunciation  of  the  associative  principle, 
viz.  to  the  writino;s  of  Aristotle  ;  and  of  these  princi- 
pally to  the  books''  De  Anima,"  "  De  Memoria,"  and  that 
which  is  entitled  in  the  old  translations  *'  Parva  Natura- 
lia."  In  ns  much  as  later  writers  have  either  deviated 
from,  or  added  to  his  doctrines,  they  appear  to  me  to  have 
introduced  either  error  or  groundless  supposition. 

In  the  first  place,  it  is  to  be  observed,  that  Aristotle's 
positions  on  this  subject  are  unmixed  with  fiction.  The 
wise  Stairyrite  speaks  of  no  successive  particles  propa- 
gating motion  like  billiard  balls,  (as  Hobbs  ;)  nor  of  ner- 
ro -s  or  anim  d  spirits,  where  inanimate  and  irrational  so- 
lids are  thawej  down,  and  distilled,  or  filtrated  by  ascen- 


67 

sion,  into  living  and  intelligent  fluids,  that  etch  and  re-etch 
engravin2;s  on  the  brain,  (as  the  followers  of  Des  Cartes, 
and  the  humoral  pathologists  in  general  ;)  nor  of  an  os- 
cillating ether  which  was  to  effect  the  same  service  for 
the  nerves  of  the  brain  considered  as  solid  fibres,  as  the 
animal  spirits  perform  for  them  under  the  notion  of  hollow 
tubes,  (as  Hartley  teaches) — nor  finally,  (with  yet  more 
recent  dreamers,)  of  chemical  compositions  by  elective  af- 
finity, or  of  an  electric  light  at  once  the  immediate  ob- 
ject and  the  ultimate  organ  of  inward  vision,  which  rises 
to  the  brain  hke  an  Aurora  Borealis,  and  there  disporting 
in  various  shapes,  (as  the  balance  of  plus  and  minus,  or 
negative  and  positive,  is  destroyed  or  re-established,)  im- 
ages out  both  past  and  present.  Aristotle  delivers  a  just 
theortj,  without  pretending  to  an  hypothesis  ;  or  in  other 
words,  a  comprehensive  survey  of  the  different  facts,  and 
of  their  relations  to  each  other,  without  supposition^  i.  e. 
a  fact  placed  under  a  number  of  facts,  as  their  common 
support  and  explanation  ;  though  in  the  mv^jority  of  in- 
stances, these  hypotheses  or  suppositions  better  deserve 
the  name  of  XTrarromo-crf,  or  siiffictions.  He  uses,  indeed,  the 
word  KivTio-crj,  to  express  what  we  call  representations 
or  ideas,  but  +ie  carefully  distinguishes  them  from  mate- 
rial motion,  designating  the  latter  always  by  annexing  the 
words  Ev  Torrw,  or  xara  tottov  On  the  Contrary,  in  his  treatise 
^*  De  Anima,"  he  excludes  place  and  motion  from  all  the 
operations  of  thought,  whether  representations  or  voli- 
tions, as  attributes  utterly  and  absurdly  heterogeneous. 

The.  general  law  of  association,  or  more  accurately  the 
common  condition  under  which  all  exciting  causes  act,  and 
in  which  they  may  be  generalized,  according  to  Aristotle, 
is  this.  :  Ideas,  by  having  been  together,  acquire  a  power 
of  recalling  each  other  ;  or  every  partial  representation 
awakes  the  total  representation  of  which  it  had  been  a 
part.  In  the  practical  determination  of  this  common  prin- 
ciple to  particular  recollections,  he  admits  ^\e  agents  or 
occasioning  causes  :  1st,  connection  in  time,  whether 
simultaneous,  preceding  or  successive  ;  2nd,  vicinity  or 
connection  in  space  ;  3rd.  interdependence  or  necessary 
connection,  as  cause  and  effect  ;  4th,  likeness;  and  5th, 
contrast.  As  an  additional  solution  of  the  occasional  seem- 
ing chasms  in  the  continuity  of  reproduction,  he  proved 


6B 

that  movements  or  ideas  possessing  one  or  the  other  of' 
these  five  characters  had  passed  through  the  mind  as  in- 
termediate links,  sufficiently  clear  to  recal  other  parts  of 
the  same  total  impressions  with  which  they  had  co-existed, 
though  not  vivid  enough  to  excite  that  degree  of  attention 
which  is  requisite  for  distinct  recollection,  or  as  w^e  may 
aptly  express  it,  after-consciousness  In  association,  then, 
consists  the  whole  mechanism  of  the  reproduction  of  im- 
pressions, in  the  Aristotelian  Psychology.  It  is  the  uni- 
versal law  of  the  passive  fancy  and  mechanical  memory  : 
that  w  hich  supplies  to  all  other  faculties  their  objects,  to 
all  thought  the  elements  of  its  materials. 

In  consulting  the  excellent  commentary  of  St.  Thomas 
Aquinas  on  the  Parva  Naturalia  of  Aristotle,  I  was  struck 
at  once  with  its  close  resemblance  to  Hume's  essay  on 
association.  The  main  thoughts  were  the  same  in  both, 
the  orde7'  of  the  thoughts  was  the  same,  and  even  the 
illustrations  differed  only  by  Hume's  occasional  substitu- 
tion of  more  modern  examples.  I  mentioned  the  cir- 
cumstance to  several  of  my  literary  acquanitances,  who 
admitted  the  closeness  of  the  resemblance,  and  that  it 
seemed  too  great  to  be  explained  by  mere  coincidence  ; 
but  they  thought  it  improbable  that  Hume  should  have 
held  the  pages  of  the  angelic  Doctor  worth  turning  ov^er. 
But  some  time  after,  Mr.  Payne,  of  the  King's  mews, 
showed  Sir  James  Mackintosh  some  odd  volumes  of  St. 
Thomas  Aquinas,  partly  perhaps  from  having  heard  that 
Sir  James  (then  Mr.)  Mackintosh  had  in  his  lectures  past 
a  high  encomium  on  this  canonized  philosopher,  but 
chiefly  from  the  fact,  that  the  volumes  had  belonged  to 
Mr.  Hume,  and  had  here  and  there  marginal  marks  and 
notes  of  reference  in  his  own  hand  writing.  Among  these 
volumes  was  that  which  contains  the  Parva  J^^aturalia^ 
in  the  old  latin  version,  swathed  and  swaddled  in  the 
commentary  afore  mentioned  ! 

It  remains,  then,  for  me,  first,  to  state  wherein  Hartley 
differs  from  Aristotle  ;  then,  to  exhibit  the  grounds  of  my 
conviction,  that  he  differed  only  to  err  :  and  next,  as  the 
result,  to  show,  by  what  influences  of  the  choice  and 
judgment  the  associative  power  becomes  either  meQ:iory 
or  fancy  ;  and,  in  conclusion,  to  appropriate  the  remain- 
ing officer  of  Vhe  mincj  to  tbe  reason   and  the   ima|ina- 


69 

tion.  With- my  best  efforts  to  be  as  perspicuous  as  the 
nature  of  language  will  permit  on  such  a  subject,  I  earn- 
estly solicit  the  good  wishes  and  friendly  patience  of  my 
readers,  while  I  thus  go  *'  sounding  on  my  dim  and  pe- 
rilous way.'' 


6^ 


70 


CHAPTER  VL 

That  Hartley'' s  system,  as  far  as  it  differs  from  that  of 
Aristotle,  is  neither  tenable  in  theory,  nor  founded  in 
facts. 

Of  Hartley's  hypothetical  vibrations  in  his  hypotheti- 
cal oscillating  ether  of  the  nerves,  which  is  the  first  and 
most  obvious  distinction  between  his  system  and  that  of 
Aristotle,  I  shall  say  little.  This,  with  all  other  similar 
attempts  to  render  that  an  object  of  the  sight  which  has 
no  relation  to  sight,  has  been  already  sufficiently  expos- 
ed by  the  younger  Reimarus,  Maasse,  &-c.  as  outraging 
the  very  axioms  of  mechanics,  in  a  scheme,  the  merit  of 
which  consists  in  its  being  mechanical.  Whether  any 
other  philosophy  be  possible,  but  the  mechanical  ;  and 
again,  whether  the  m.echanical  system  can  have  any 
claim  to  be  called  philosophy  ;  are  questions  for  another 
place.  It  is,  however,  certain,  that  as  long  as  we  deny 
the  former,  and  affirm  the  latter,  we  must  bewilder  our- 
selves, whenever  we  would  pierce  into  the  adyta  of  causa- 
tion ;  and  ail  that  laborious  conjecture  can  do,  is  to  fill 
up  the  gaps  of  fancy.  Under  that  despotism  of  the  eye 
(the  emancipation  from  which  Pythagoras  by  his  numeral^ 
and  Plato  by  his  musical,  symbols,  and  both  by  geomet- 
ric discipline,  aimed  at,  as  the  first  rr^cncudeviixQv  of  the 
mind) — under  this  strong  sensuous  iniiuence,  we  are 
restless,  because  invisible  thmgs  are  not  the  objects  of 
virion  ;.  and  metaphysical  systems,  for  the  most  part,  be- 
come popular,  not  for  their  truth,  but  in  proportion  as 
they  attribute  to  causes  a  susceptibility  of  being  see?2,  if 
only  our  visual  organs  were  sufficientl}^  powerful. 

From  a  hundred  possible  confutations,  let  one  suffice. 
According  to  this  system,  the  idea  or  vibration  a  from  the 
external  object  A  becomes  associable  with  the  idea  or 
vibration  m  from  the  external  object  M,  because  the 
oscillation  a  propagated  itself  so  as  to  re-produce  the 
oscillation  rn.  But  the  original  impression  from  M  was 
essentially  different  from  the  impression  A  :  unless,  there- 
lore,  different  causes  may  produce  the  same  effect,  the  vi- 


71 

bration  a  could  never  produce  the  vibration  m  i  and  this* 
therefore,  could  never  be  the  means  by  which  a  and  m 
are  associated.  To  understand  this,  the  attentive  reader 
need  only  be  reminded,  that  the  ideas  are  themselves, 
in  Hartley's  system,  nothing  more  than  their  appropri- 
ate configurative  vibrations.  It  is  a  mere  delusion  of  the 
iancy  to  conceive  the  pre-existence  of  the  ideas,  in  any 
chain  of  association,  as  so  many  differently  coloured 
billiard-balls  in  contact,  so  that  when  an  object,  the  bil- 
liard-stick, strikes  the  first  or  white  ball,  the  same  motion 
propagates  itself  through  the  red,  green,  blue,  black, 
Lc.  and  sets  the  whole  in  motion.  No  !  we  must  sup- 
pose the  very  same  force,  which  constitutes  the  white 
ball,  to  constitute  the  red  or  black  ;  or  the  idea  of  a  cir- 
cle to  constitute  the  idea  of  a  triangle  ;  which  is  impossi- 
ble. 

But  it  may  be  said,  that,  by  the  sensations  from  the 
objects  A  and  M,  the  nerves  have  acquired  a  disposition 
to  the  vibrations  a  and  m,  and  therefore  a  need  only  be 
repeated  in  order  to  reproduce  m.  Now  we  will  grant, 
for  a  moment,  the  possibility  of  such  a  disposition  in  a 
material  nerve  ;  which  yet  seems  scarcely  less  absurd 
than  to  say,  that  a  weather-cock  had  acquired  a  habit  of 
turning  to  the  east,  from  the  wind  having  been  so  long  in 
that  quarter  :  for  if  it  be  replied,  that  we  must  take  in 
the  circumstance  of  ///e,  what  then  becomes  of  the  me- 
chanical philosophy  ?  And  what  is  the  nerve,  but  the 
flint  which  the  wag  placed  in  the  pot  as  the  first  ingredient 
of  his  stone-broth,  requiring  only  salt,  turnips,  and  mutton, 
for  the  remainder  !  But  if  we  waive  this,  and  presup- 
pose the  actual  existence  of  such  a  disposition,  two  cases 
are  possible.  Either,  every  idea  has  its  own  nerve  and 
correspondent  oscillation,  or  this  is  not  the  case.  If  the 
latter  be  the  truth,  we  should  gain  nothing  by  these  dis- 
positions ;  for  then,  every  nerve  having  several  disposi- 
tions, when  the  motion  of  any  other  nerve  is  propagated 
into  it,  there  will  be  no  ground  or  cause  present,  why  ex- 
actly the  oscillation  ?/i  should  arise,  ra^ther  than  any  other 
to  which  it  was  equally  predisposed.  But  if  we  take 
the  former,  and  let  e\ery  idea  have  a  nerve  of  its  owrh, 
then  every  nerve  must  be  capable  of  propagating  its  mo- 
tioa  iuto  many  other  nerves  j  and  again,  there  is  no  rea- 


72 

son  assignable,  why  the  vibration  m  should  arise,  rathet 
than  any  oiher  ad  libitum. 

It  is  fashionable  to  smile  at  Hartley's  vibrations  and 
vibratiuncles  ;  and  his  work  has  been  re-edited  bjr 
Priestley,  vrith  the  omission  of  the  material  hypothesis. 
But  Hartley  was  too  great  a  man,  too  coherent  a  thinker, 
for  this  to  have  been  done,  either  consistently  or  to  any 
wise  purpose.  For  all  other  parts  of  his  system,  as  far 
as  they  are  peculiar  to  that  system,  once  removed  from 
their  mechanical  basis,  not  only  lose  their  main  support, 
but  the  very  motive  which  led  to  their  adoption.  Thus 
the  principle  oi contemporaneity^  which  Aristotle  had  made 
the  common  condition  of  all  the  laws  of  association,  Hart- 
ley was  constrained  to  represent  as  being  itself  the  sole 
law.  For  to  what  law  can  the  action  of  material  atoms 
be  subject,  but  that  of  proximity  in  place?  And  to  what 
law  can  their  motions  be  subjected,  but  that  of  time  ? 
Again,  from  this  results  inevitably,  that  the  will,  the  rea- 
son, the  judgment,  and  the  understanding,  instead  of  be- 
ing the  determining  causes  of  association,  must  needs  be 
represented  as  its  creatures,  and  among  its  mechanical 
effects.  Conceive,  for  instance,  a  broad  stream,  winding 
through  a  mountainous  country,  with  an  indefinite  number 
of  currents,  varying  and  running  into  each  other  accord- 
ing as  the  gusts  chance  to  blow  trom  the  opening  of  the 
mountains.  The  temporary  union  of  several  currents  in 
one,  so  as  to  form  the  main  current  of  the  moment,  would 
►  present  an  accurate  image  of  Hartley's  theory  of  the  will. 

Had  this  been  really  the  case,  the  consequence  would 
have  been,  that  our  whole  life  would  be  divided  between 
the  despotism  of  outward  impressions,  and  that  of  sense- 
less and  passive  memory.  Take  his  law  in  its  highest 
abstraction  and  most  philosophical  form,  viz.  that  every 
partial  representation  recalls  the  total  representation  of 
which  it  was  a  part  ;  and  the  law  becomes  nugatory, 
were  it  only  from  its  universality.  In  practice  it  would, 
indeed,  be  mere  lawlessness.  Consider  how  immense 
must  be  the  sphere  of  a  total  impression  from  the  top  of 
St.  Paul's  church  ;  and  how  rapid  and  continuous  the  se- 
ries of  such  total  impressions,  if,  therefore,  we  suppose 
the  absence  of  all  interference  of  the  will,  reason,  and 
judgment,  one  or  other  of  two  consequences  must  result. 
Either  the  ideas,  (or  relicts  of  such  impression,)  will  eX'* 


73 

aclly  iiriitate  the  order  of  the  impression  itself,  wbicli 
would  be  absolute  delirium  ;  or  any  one  part  of  that  im- 
pression might  recall  any  other  part,  and,  (as  from  the 
law  of  continuity  there  must  exist,  in  esery  total  impres- 
sion, some  one  or  more  parts,  which  are  com.ponents  of 
some  other  following  impression,  and  soon  ad  infinitum,) 
any  part  of  a7iy  impression  might  recal  any  part  of  any 
other,  without  a  cause  present  to  determine  ie.7iftnt  should 
be  For  to  bring  in  the  will,  or  reason,  as  causes  of  their 
own  cause,  that  is,  at  once  causes  and  effects,  can  satisfy 
those  only  who,  in  their  pretended  evidences  of  a  God, 
having,  first,  demanded  organization  as  the  sole  cause  and 
ground  of  intellect,  will,  then,  coolly  demand  the  pre- 
existence  of  intellect  as  the  cause  and  ground-work  of 
organization.  There  is,  in  truth,  but  one  state  to  which 
this  theory  applies  at  all,  namely,  that  of  complete  light- 
headedness ;  and  even  to  this  it  applies  but  partially, 
because  the  will  and  reason  are,  perhaps,  never  wholly 
suspended. 

A  case  of  this  kind  occurred  in  a  Catholic  town  in  Ger 
many,  a  year  or  two  before  my  arrival  at  Gotlingen,  and 
had  not  then  ceased  to  be  a  frequent  subject  of  conversa 
tion.  A  young  woman  of  four  or  five  and  twenty,  who 
could  neither  read  nor  write,  was  seized  with  a  nervous 
fever  ;  during  which,  according  to  the  asseverations  of  all 
the  priests  and  monks  of  the  neighbourhood,  she  became 
possessed^  and,  as  it  appeared,  by  a  very  learned  devil. 
She  continued  incessantly  talking  Latin,  Greek,  and  He- 
brew, in  very  pompous  tones,  and  with  most  distinct  enun- 
ciation. This  possession  was  rendered  more  probable,  by 
the  known  fact  that  she  was,  or  had  been,  an  heretic. 
Voltaire  humourously  advises  the  devil  to  decline  all  ac- 
quaintance with  medical  men  ;  and  it  would  have  been 
more  to  his  reputation  if  he  had  taken  this  advice  in  the 
present  instance.  The  case  had  attracted  the  particular 
attention  of  a  young  physician,  and,  by  his  statement, 
many  eminent  physiologists  and  psychologists  visited  the 
town  and  cross-examined  the  case  on  the  spot.  Sheets 
full  of  her  raviiigs  were  taken  down  frbm  her  own  mouth, 
and  were  found  to  consist  of  sentences  coherent  and  in- 
telligible  each  for  itself,  but  with  little  or  no  connectioi 
witli  each  other  Of  the  Hebrew,  a  small  portion  only 
could   be  traced  to  the    Bible  ;   the  remainder  seemed  to 


74 

be  in  the  rabinical  dialect.  All  trick  or  conspiracy  was 
out  of  the  question.  Not  only  had  the  J'oung  woman 
ever  been  an  h  trinl^ss,  simple  creature,  but  she  was  evi- 
dently labouring  under  a  nervous  fever.  In  the  town  in 
which  she  had  been  resident  for  many  years,  as  a  servant 
in  differeni  families,  no  solution  presented  itself.  The 
young  physician,  however,  determined  to  trace  her  past 
life  step  by  step;  for  the  patient  herself  was  incapable 
of  returning  a  rational  answer.  He,  at  length,  succeed- 
ed in  discovering  the  place  where  her  parents  had  Jived  ; 
travelled  thither,  found  thetn  dead,  but  an  uncle  hurviv- 
ing  ;  and  from  him  learnt,  that  the  patient  had  been  cha- 
ritably taken  by  an  old  protestant  pastor  at  nine  years 
old,  and  had  remained  with  him  some  years,  even  till 
the  old  man's  death  Of  this  pastor  the  uncle  knew  no- 
thing, but  that  he  was  a  very  good  man.  With  great 
ditficulty,  and  after  much  search,  our  young  medical  phi- 
losopher discovered  a  niece  of  the  pastor's,  who  had  liv- 
ed with  hiin  as  his  house-keeper,  and  had  inherited  his 
effects.  She  remembered  the  girl  ;  related,  that  her  ve- 
nerable uncle  had  been  too  indulgent,  and  could  not  bear 
to  hear  the  girl  scolded  ;  that  she  was  willing  to  have 
kept  her,  but  that,  after  her  patron's  death,  the  girl  her- 
self refused  to  stay.  Anxious  inquiries  were  then,  of 
course,  made  concerning  the  pastor's  habits,  and  the  so- 
lution of  the  phenomenon  was  soon  obtained.  For  it 
appeared,  that  it  had  been  the  old  man's  custom  for  years, 
to  walk  up  and  down  a  passage  of  his  house,  into  which 
the  kitchen  door  opened,  and  to  read  to  himself,  with  a 
loud  voice,  out  of  his  favourite  books.  A  considerable 
number  of  these  were  still  in  the  niece's  possession.  She 
added,  that  he  was  a  very  learned  man,  and  a  great  He- 
braist. Among  the  books  were  found  a  collection  of  rab- 
binical writings,  together  with  several  of  the  Greek  and 
Latin  fathers  ;  and  the  physician  succeeded  in  identify- 
ing so  many  passages  with  those  taken  down  at  the  young 
woman's  bedside,  that  no  doubt  could  remain  in  any  ra- 
tional mind,  concerning  the  true  origin  of  the  impressions 
made  on  her  nervous  system. 

This  authenticated  case  furnishes  both  proof  and  in- 
^tanc*^,  that  relicks  of  sensation  may  exist,  for  an  inde- 
finite time,  in  a  latent  state,  in  the  very  same  order  in 
which  they  were  originally  impressed ;  and,  as  we  caja- 


75 

not  rationally  suppose  the  feverish  state  of  the  brain  to 
act  in  any  other  way  than  as  a  stimulus,  this  fact,  (and 
it  would  not  be  difficult  to  adduce  several  of  the  same 
kini!,)  contributes  to  make  it  even  probable,  that  all 
thousjhts  are,  in  themselves  imperishable;  and  that, 
if  the  intelligf  nt  faculty  should  be  rendered  rnore  com- 
prehensive it  would  require  only  a  different  and  appor- 
tioned organization,  the  body  celestial  instead  of  the  body 
terrestrial^  to  bring  before  every  human  soul  the  collec- 
tive experience  of  its  whole  past  existence  And  this — 
this,  perchance,  is  the  dread  book  of  judgment,  in  whose 
mysterious  hieroglyphics  every  idle  word  is  recorded  ! 
Yea,  in  the  very  nature  of  a  living  spirit,  it  maybe  more 
possible  that  heaven  and  earth  should  pass  away,  than 
that  a  single  act,  a  single  thought,  should  be  loosened,  or 
lost,  from  that  living  chain  of  causes,  to  all  whose  links, 
conscious  or  unconscious,  the  free  will,  our  only  absolute 
self^  is  co-extensive  and  co-present.  But  not  now  dare 
I  longer  discourse  of  this,  waiting  for  a  loftier  mood, 
and  a  nobler  subject,  warned  from  within  and  from 
without,  that  it  is  profanation  to  speak  of  these  mysteries* 

TC?J  linJirroTf  (pavTacrS-fraiv,  coj  xaAcv  t3  tr\i  5ixa»o(rbVTij  irai  crw(pjocruvnj  ttjo- 
couTTov,  xal  Cii  atf  lairi^oi  are  ja^oi  «toj  xaXa.  Tov  70,^  ofujvra  rrfoj  t6 
ejc6/x£vov  o"Li77fv»  xal  o^oiov  Troi-ncraMfvov  6i\  ittiPolWuv  rn  {q'  bv  'ya^  av  ttcj- 
TTOTJ  iJSiv  "O^S-aXjjioj  IlXiov  TiKiotidiM  fin  'yr/Evh^ievoSy  hS(  to  Ka\ov  av  Mtj 
^uxn  /^^  "olXt)  7ivofiiv7i.  Plotinus. 

*  *'  To  those  to  whose  imag-ination  it  has  never  been  presented,  how 
beautiful  is  the  countenance  of  justi(  e  and  wisdom  ;  and  tiiat  neither  the 
morning-  nor  the  evening'  star  are  so  fair.  For,  in  ordt^r  to  direct  the  view 
arig-ht,  it  behoves  that  the  beholder  should  have  made  himself  congene- 
rous and  similar  to  the  object  beheld.  Never  could  the  eye  have  beheld 
th*^  sun,  had  not  its  own  e->sence  l)een  soliform,"  (thrit  ?,s,  pre-conjigured  to 
light  by  a  shnilnrily  f]f  ea^emre  with  thai  of  lighl^)  "neither  can  a  soul  not 
beautiful  attain  to  an  intuition  of  beautv," 


76 


CHAPTER  VI!. 

Of  the  necessary  cojisequeyices  of  the  Hartlcian  theory^ — Cff 
the  original  mistake  or  equivocation  zchich  procured  ad- 
mission for  the  theory — Alemoria  Technica, 

We  will  pass  b}^  the  utter  incompatibility  of  such  a  law, 
(if  law  it  may  be  called,  which  would  itself  be  the  slave 
of  chances,)  with  even  W\^i  appearance  of  rationality  for- 
ced upon  us  by  the  outward  phenomena  of  human  con-, 
duct,  abstracted  from  our  own  consciousness.  We  will 
agree  to  forget  this  for  the  moment,  in  order  to  fix  our 
attention  on  that  subordination  of  tinal  to  efficient  causes 
in  the  human  being,  which  flows  of  necessity  from  the  as- 
sumption, that  the  will,  and  with  the  will  all  acts  of 
thought  and  attention,  are  parts  and  products  of  this  blind 
mechanism,  instead  of  being  distinct  powers,  whose  func- 
tion it  is  to  control,  determine,  and  modify  the  phantas- 
ma  chaos  of  association.  The  soul  becomes  a  mere  ens 
logicum  ;  for  as  a  real  separable  being,  it  would  be  more 
worthless  and  ludicrous,  than  the  Grimalkins  in  the  Cat- 
harpsichord,  described  in  the  Spectator.  For  these  did 
form  a  part  of  the  process  ;  but  in  Hartley's  scheme  the 
soul  is  present  only  to  be  pinched  or  stroked^  while  the 
very  squeals  or  purring  are  produced  by  an  agency 
wholly  independent  and  alien.  It  involves  all  the  diffi- 
culties, all  the  incomprehensibility  (if  it  be  not  indeed, 
c6r  fjioiye  5jx?i,  the  absurdity)  of  intercommunion  between 
substances  that  have  no  one  property  in  common,  with- 
out any  of  the  convenient  consequences  that  bribed  the 
judgment  to  the  admission  of  the  dualistic  hypothesis. 
Accordingly,  this  caput  mortuum  of  the  Hartleian  process 
has  been  rejected  by  his  followers,  and  the  consciousness 
considered  as  a  result^  as  a  tune,  the  common  product  of 
the  breeze  and  the  harp :  though  this  again  is  the  mere  re- 
motion  of  one  absurdity,  to  make  way  for  another  equally 
preposterous.  For  what  is  harmony  but  a  mode  of  rela 
tion,  the  very  esse  of  which  is  percipi  ?  An  ens  rationale, 
which  presupposes  the  power,  that  by  perceiving  creates 
it  ?    The  razor's  ed^ge  becomes  a  saw  to  the  armed  vision  : 


77 

and  the  delicious  melodies  of  Purcell  or  Cimarosa  miglit 
be  disjointed  stammerings  to  a  hearer,  whose  partition  of 
time  should  be  a  thousand  times  subtler  thap  ours.  But 
this  obstacle  too  let  us  imagine  ourselves  to  have  sur- 
mounted, and  *'  at  one  bound  high  overleap  all  bound  !'* 
Yet,  according  to  this  hypothesis,  the  disquisition,  to  which 
I  am  at  present  soliciting  the  reader's  attention,  may  be 
as  truly  said  to  be  written  by  Saint  Paul's  church,  as  by 
me  ;  for  it  is  the  mere  motion  of  my  muscles  and  nerves  : 
and  these  again  are  set  in  motion  from  external  causes 
equally  passive,  which  external  causes  stand  themselves 
in  interdependent  connection  with  every  thing  that^xists 
or  has  existed.  Thus  the  whole  universe  co-operates 
to  produce  the  minutest  stroke  of  every  letter,  save  only 
that  I  myself,  and  I  alone,  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,  but 
merely  the  causeless  and  eff^ectless  beholding  of  it  when  it 
is  done.  Yet  scarcely  can  it  be  called  a  beholding ;  for 
it  is  neither  an  act  nor  an  effect ;  but  an  impossible  crea- 
tion of  a  sonicthing-notJiing  out  of  its  very  contrary  I  It 
is  the  mere  quick-silver  plating  behind  a  looking-glass  ; 
and  in  this  alone  consists  the  poor  worthless  I !  The 
sum  total  of  my  moral  and  intellectual  intercourse  dis- 
solved into  its  elements  are  reduced  to  extension^  motion^ 
degrees  of  velocity^  and  those  diminished  copies  of  con- 
figurative  motion,  which  form  what  we  call  notions,  and 
notions  of  notions.  Of  such  philosophy  well  might  But- 
ler say — 

"  The  metaphysics  but  a  puppet  motion 
That  goes  with  screws,  the  notioQ  of  a  notion  ; 
The  copy  of  a  copy,  and  lame  drauo^ht 
Unnaturally  taken  from  a  thought  : 
That  counterfeits  all  pantommiic  tricks, 
And  tuins  the  eyes,  like  an  old  crucifix; 
That  counterchanges  whatsoe'er  it  calls 
B'  another  name,  and  makes  it  true  or  false ; 
Turns  truth  to  falsehood,  falsehood  into  truth, 
By  virtue  of  the  Babylonian's  tooth." 

Miscellaneous  Thoughts. 

The  inventor  of  the  watch  did  not  in  reality  invent  it ; 
he  only  looked  on,  while  the  bhnd  causes,  the  only  true 
artists,  were  unfolding  themselves.  So  must  it  have  been 
too  with  my  friend  Allston,  when  he  sketched  his  pic- 

Vol.   I.  7 


78 

ture  of  the  dead  man  revived  by  the  bones  of  the  pro- 
phet Ehjah.  r^j  must  it  have  been  with  Mr.  Southey 
and  Lord  Byron,  when  the  one  fancied  himself  compos- 
ing his  ''  Roderick,"  and  the  other  his  "  Childe  Ha- 
rold." The  same  must  hold  good  of  all  systems  of  phi- 
losophy ;  of  all  arts,  governments,  wars  by  sea  and  by  land; 
in  short,  of  all  things  that  ever  have  been  or  that  ever 
will  be  produced.  For,  according  to  this  system,  it  is  not 
the  affections  and  passions  that  are  at  work,  in  as  far  as  they 
are  s€7isations  or  thoughts.  We  only  fancy  ^  that  we  act  from 
rational  resolves,  or  prudent  motives,  or  from  impulses  of 
anger,  love,  or  generosity.  In  all  these  cases  the  real  agent 
is  Si  soinething-nothing-every'thing^  which  does  all  of  which 
we  know,  and  knows  nothing  of  all  that  itself  does. 

The  existence  of  an  infinite  spirit,  of  an  intelligent  and 
holy  will,  must,  on  this  system,  be  mere  articulated  mo-  j 
tions  of  the  air.  For  as  the  function  of  the  human  under- 
standing is  no  other  than  merely  (to  appear  to  itself)  to 
combine  and  to  apply  the  phaenomena  of  the  association  ; 
and  as  these  derive  all  their  reality  from  the  primary 
sensations  ;  and  the  sensations  again  all  their  reality  from 
the  impressions  ab  extra  ;  a  God  not  visible,  audible,  or 
tangible,  can  exist  only  in  the  sounds  and  letters  that  form 
his  name  and  attributes.  If  in  ourselves  there  be  no  such 
faculties  as  those  of  the  will,  and  the  scientific  reason,  we 
must  either  have  an  innate  idea  of  them,  which  would 
overthrow  the  whole  system,  or  we  can  have  no  idea  at 
all.  The  process,  by  which  Hume  degraded  the  notion 
of  cause  and  effect  into  a  blind  product  of  delusion  and 
babit,  into  the  mere  sensation  of  proceeding  life  (nisus 
vitahs)  associated  with  the  images  of  the  memory  ;  this 
same  process  must  be  repeated  to  the  equal  degradation 
jk>f  e\evy  fundamental  idea  in  ethics  or  theology. 

Far,  very  far,  am  1  from  burthening  with  the  odium  of 
these  consequences  the  moral  characters  of  those  who 
first  formed,  or  have  since  adopted  the  system  !  It  is 
most  noticeable-.<?f  the  excellent  and  pious  Hartley,  that  in 
the  proofs  of  the  existence  and  attributes  of  God,  with 
which  his  second  volume  commences,  he  makes  no  refer- 
ence to  the  principles  or  results  of  the  first.  Nay,  he 
assumes,  as  his  foundations,  ideas  which,  if  we  embrace 
the  doctrines  of  his  first  volume,  can  exist  no  where  but  in 
the  vibrations  of  the  ethereal  medium  common  to  the 


79 

nerves  and  to  the  atmosphere.  Indeed,  the  whole  of  the 
second  volume  is,  with  the  fewest  possible  exceptions,  in- 
dependent of  his  peculiar  system.  So  true  is  it,  that  the 
faith,  which  saves  and  sanctifies,  is  a  collective  energy,  a 
total  act  of  the  whole  moral  being  ;  that  its  living  senso- 
rium  is  in  the  heart ;  and  that  no  errors  of  the  understand- 
ing can  be  morally  arraigned,  unless  they  have  proceed- 
ed from  the  heart.  But  wliether  they  be  such,  no  man 
can  be  Certain  in  the  case  of  another,  scarcely,  perhaps, 
even  in  his  own.  Hence  it  follows,  by  inevitable  conse- 
quence, that  man  may  perchance  determine,  'v^hat  is  an 
heresy  ;  but  God  only  can  know,  ijcJio  is  an  heretic.  It 
does  not,  however,  by  any  means  follow,  that  opinions 
fundamentally  false  are  harmless.  An  hundred  causes 
may  co-exist  to  form  one  complex  antidote.  Yet  the 
sting  of  the  adder  remains  venomous,  though  there  are 
many  who  have  taken  up  the  evil  thing  ;  and  it  hurted 
them  not !  Some  indeed  there  seem  to  have  been,  in  an 
unfortunate  neighbour-nation  at  least,  who  have  embra- 
ced this  system  with  a  full  view  of  all  its  moral  and  re- 
ligious consequences  ;  some — 


-wbo  deem  themselves  most  free, 


When  Ibey  within  this  gross  and  visible  sphere 
Chain  down  the  winged  thought,  scoffing  assent, 
Proud  in  their  meanness ;  and  themselves  they  cheat 
With  noisy  emptiness  of  learned  phrase, 
Their  subtle  fluids,  impacts,  essences, 
Self-working  tools,  uncaus'd  effects,  and  all 
Those  blink  omniscients,  those  Almighty  slaves. 
Untenanting  Creation  of  its  God  ! 

Such  men  need  discipline,  not  argument ;  they  must  be 
made  better  men,  before  they  can  become  wiser. 

The  attention  will  be  more  profitably  employed  in  at- 
tempting to  discover  and  expose  the  paralogisms,  by  the 
magic  of  which  such  a  faith  could  find  admission  into  minds 
framed  for  a  nobler  creed.  These,  it  appears  to  me,  may 
be  ^11  reduced  to  one  sophism  as  their  common  genus  ;  the 
mistaking  the  conditions  of  a  thing  for  its  causes  and  es- 
sence ;  and  the  process  by  which  we  arrive  at  the  know- 
ledge of  a  faculty,  for  the  faculty  itself  The  air  I 
breathe  is  the  mdition  of  my  bfe,  not  its  cause.  We 
could  never  have  learnt  that  we  had  eyes  but  by  the 


so 

process  ot  seeing  :  yet  haviag  seen»  we  knovT  tfiat  the 
eyes  must  have  pre-existed  ia  oruer  to  render  the  pro- 
cess of  sight  possible.  Let  us  cross-examJDe  Hartley's 
j:i  erne  unJer  the  guidance  of  this  distinction  ;  and  we 
shaii  discover,  that  coDtemporaiieity  Leibnitz's  Lex  Cam- 
tinm)  is  the  limit  and  condition  ot  the  laws  of  mind,  itself 
bein^  rather  a  law  of  matter,  at  least  oi  pbaenomena  cod- 
>.ldered  as  niateriaL  At  the  atmost,  it  is  to  jhovzhi  the 
iame  as  the  law  of  gravitatioa  is  to  loco-moiion.  In 
ererj  volantarj  moTement  we  first  couDienct  gravita- 
tion, in  order  to  avail  oarselves  of  it.  It  must  exist,  that 
there  may  he  a  something  to  be  counteracted,  and  which 
by  its  re-action,  aids  the  force  that  is  exerted  to  resist 
it.  Let  OS  consider  what  we  da  when  we  leap.  We 
drst  reiist  the  gravitating  power  by  an  act  purely  vo- 
lantary,  and  then  by  another  act.  vcluntan  in  part,  we 
vie]d  to  it  in  order  to  light  on  the  spot  which  we  had 
previonsly  proposed  to  oarselves  Now,  let  a  man 
waicti  his  misid  while  he  is  composing;  or,  to  take  a 
-liil  more  common  case,  while  be  is  trying  to  recollect 
^  name  ;  and  be  will  find  the  process  completely  analo- 
^as.  Most  of  my  readers  will  have  observed  a  small 
water  insect  on  the  surface  of  riTulets,  which  throws  a 
'  inqne-spotted  shadow,  firinged  with  prismatic  colours,  od 
the  siiRDT  bottom  of  the  brook  ;  and  will  have  noticed, 
how  the  little  animal  wins  its  way  up  against  the  stream, 
by  alternate  pulses  of  active  and  passive  motion,  now 
resistinsT  the  current,  and  now  yielding  to  it  in  order  to 
o^ather  strength  and  a  momentaryyv/crMm  for  a  farther 
propulsion.  This  is  no  unapt  emblem  of  the  mind's  self- 
experience  in  the  act  of  thinking.  There  are  evident- 
ly two  powers  at  work,  which  relatively  to  each  other 
are  active  and  passive  ;  and  this  is  not  possible  without 
an  intermediate  faculty,  which  is  at  once  both  active  and 
passire.  (In  philosophical  language,  we  roust  denomi- 
nate this  intermediate  faculty  in  all  its  degrees  and  de- 
-terminations,  the  iMAGiirATioy.  But  in  common  lan- 
guage, and  especially  on  the  subject  of  poetry,  we  ap- 
propriate the  name  to  a  superior  degree  of  the  Acuity, 
joined  to  a  superior  voluntary  cootrol  over  it.) 

Contemporaneity  then,  beii^  the  common  condition  of 
afithe  laws  of  association,  and  a  component  element  in  all 
ihe  inateria  subjecta,  the  parts  of  which  arc  to  be  ssic^- 


81 

ciated,  must  needs  be  co-present  with  all.  Nothing, 
therefore,  can  be  more  easy  than  to  pass  off  on  an  incau- 
tious mind  this  constant  companion  of  each,  for  the  essen- 
tial substance  of  all.  But  if  we  appeal  to  our  own  con- 
sciousness, we  shall  find  that  even  time  itself,  as  the 
cause  of  a  particular  act  of  association,  is  distinct  from 
contemporaneity,  as  the  co7zc?zVionofcf/Z  association.  See- 
ing a  mackarel,  it  may  happen  that  I  immediately  think  of 
gooseberries,  because  I  at  the  same  time  ate  mackarel 
with  gooseberries  as  the  sauce.  The  first  syllable  of  the 
latter  word,  being  that  which  had  co-existed  with  the  im- 
age of  the  bird  so  called,  I  may  then  think  of  a  goose. 
In  the  next  moment  the  image  of  a  swan  may  arise  before 
me,  though  I  had  never  seen  the  two  birds  together.  In 
the  two  former  instances,  I  am  conscious  that  their  co- 
existence in  time  was  the  circumstance  that  enabled  me 
to  recollect  them  ;  and  equally  conscious  am  I,  that  the 
latter  was  recalled  to  me  by  the  joint  operation  of  like- 
ness and  contrast.  So  it  is  with  cause  and  effect ;  so  too- 
with  order.  So  am  I  able  to  distinguish  whether  it  was 
proximity  in  time,  or  continuity  in  space,  that  occasioned 
me  to  recall  B.  on  the  mention  of  A  They  cannot  be  indeed 
separated  from  contemporaneity  ;  for  that  would  be  to  se- 
parate them  from  the  mind  itself  The  act  of  conscious- 
ness is  indeed  identical  with  r/me, considered  in  its  essence, 
(1  mean  time  perse,  as  contra-distinguished  from  our  notion 
of  time  ;  for  this  is  always  blended  with  the  idea  of  space, 
which,  as  the  contrary  o^iime^  is  therefore  its  measure.^ 
Nevertheless,  the  accident  of  seeing  two  objects  at  the 
same  moment,  acts  as  a  distinguishable  cause  from  that  of 
having  seen  them  in  the  same  place  :  and  the  true  prac- 
tical general  law  of  association  is  this  ;  that  whatever 
makes  certain  parts  of  a  total  impression  more  vivid  or 
distinct  than  the  rest,  will  determine  the  mind  to  recall 
these,  in  preference  to  others  equally  linked  together  by 
the  common  condition  of  contemporaneity,  or  (what  I 
deem  a  more  appropriate  and  philosophical  term)  of  con- 
tinuity.    But  the  will  itself,  by  confining  and  intensify ing"*^' 

*  I  am  aware,  that  this  word  occurs  neither  in  Johnson''s  Dictionary  nor 
m  any  classical  writer.  But  the  word,  "  tf)  inlemW''  which  N^vvtori  ami 
©thers  before  him  employ  in  this  sense,  is  now  so  cornyjletely  appropriated 
lo  another  meaning",  that  1  coukl  not  use  it  without  ambiguity  :  v/hile  to 
^'jiruphraae  the  sense,  as  bv  render  inicnsej  ^"fould .often,  bi-eak  up  the  jcrv- 
1^ 


82 

the  attention,  may  arbitrarily  give  vividness  or  distinctness 
to  any  object  whatsoever ;  and  from  hence  we  may  de- 
duce the  uselessness,  if  not  the  absurdity,  of  certain  recent 
schemes,  which  promise  an  artificial  memory^  but  which 
in  reality  can  only  produce  a  confusion  and  debasement 
of  the/cx7ic//.  Sound  logic,  as  the  habitual  subordination 
of  the  individual  to  the  species,  and  of  the  species  to  the 
genus  ;  philosophical  knowledge  of  facts  under  the  rela- 
tion of  cause  and  effect  ;  a  cheerful  and  communicative 
temper,  that  disposes  us  to  notice  the  similarities  and  con- 
trasts of  things,  that  we  may  be  able  to  illustrate  the  one 
by  the  other  ;  a  quiet  conscience  ;  a  condition  free  from 
anxieties  ;  sound  health,  and,  above  all,  (as  far  as  relates 
to  passive  remembrance,)  a  healthy  digestion  ;  these  are 
the  best — these  are  the  only  Arts  of  Memory. 


tence,  and  destroy  that  harmony  of  the  position  of  the  words  with  the  logi- 
cal position  of  the  thoughts,  which  is  a  beauty  in  all  composition,  and  more 
especially  desirable  in  a  close  philosophical  investigation.  I  have  there- 
fore hazarded  the  word  vnitnsi/y ;  tiliough  1  confess  it  sounds  uncouth  tft 
cwy  owo  ©au. 


53 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  system  of  Dualism,  introduced  by  Des  Cartes — Re- 
fined Jirst  by  Spinoza^  and  after  awards  by  Leibnitz,  into 
the  doctrine  of  Harmonia  proestabilita — Hylosoism — Ma- 
terialism— Neither  of  these  systems,  on  any  possible  theory 
of  association,  supplies  or  supersedes  a  theory  of  percep- 
tion, or  explains  the  formation  of  the  associable. 

To  the  best  of  my  knowledge,  Des  Cartes  was  the  first 
philosopher,  who  introduced  the  absolute  and  essential  he- 
terogeneity of  the  soul  as  intelligence,  and  the  body  as  mat- 
ter. The  assumption,  and  the  form  of  speaking,  have  re- 
mained, though  the  denial  of  all  other  properties  to  matter 
but  that  of  extension,  on  which  denial  the  whole  system  of 
dualism  is  grounded,  has  been  long  exploded.  For  since 
impenetrabiUty  is  intelligible  only  as  a  mode  of  resistance, 
its  admission  places  the  essence  o^ matter  in  an  act  or  pow- 
er, which  it  possesses  in  common  with  spirit ;  and  body  and 
spirit  are  therefore  no  longer  absolutely  heterogeneous,- 
but  may,  without  any  absurdity,  be  supposed  to  be  different 
modes  or  degrees  in  perfection,  of  a^common  substratum. 
To  this  possibility,  however,  it  was  not  the  fashion  to  ad- 
vert. The  soul  was  a  thinking  substance  ;  and  body  a 
space-filling  substance.  Yet  the  apparent  action  of  each 
on  the  other  pressed  heavy  on  the  philosopher,  on  the 
one  hand  ;  and  no  less  heavily,  on  the  other  hcmd,  pressed 
the  evident  truth,  that  the  law  of  casuality  holds  only  be- 
tween homogeneous  things,  i.e.  thins^s  having  some  com- 
mon property,  and  cannot  extend  from  one  world  into 
another,  its  opposite.  A  close  analysis  evinced  it  to  be 
no  less  absurd,  than  the  question,  whether  a  man's  aifection 
for  his  wife  lay  North-east  or  South-west  of  the  love  he 
bore  towards  his  child  ?  Leibnitz's  doctrine  of  a  pre-esta» 
blished  harmony,  which  he  certainly  borrowed  from  Spi- 
noza, who  had  himself  taken  the  hint  from  Des  Cartes's 
animal  machines,  was  in  its  common  interpretation  too 
strange  to  survive  the  inventor — too  repugnant  to  our 
eommon  sense  (which  is  not  indeed  entitled  to  a  judicial 
voice  in  the  courts  of  scientific  philosophy  -^  but  whos^ 


84 

whispers  still  exert  a  strong  secret  influence.)  Even 
Wolf,  the  admirer,  and  illustrious  systematizer  of  the  Le- 
ibnitzian  doctrine,  contents  himself  with  defending  the 
possibility  of  the  idea,  but  does  not  adopt  it  as  a  part  of 
the  edilice. 

The  hypothesis  of  Hylozoism,  on  the  other  side,  is  the 
death  of  all  rational  physiology,  and,  indeed,  of  all  phy- 
sical science  ;  for  that  requires  a  limitation  of  terms,  and 
cannot  consist  with  the  arbitrary  power  of  multiplying 
attributes  by  occult  qualities.  Besides,  it  answers  no 
purpose  ;  unless,  indeed,  a  difficulty  can  be  solved  by 
multiplj'ing  it,  or  that  we  can  acquire  a  clearer  notion 
of  our  soul,  by  being  told  that  we  have  a  million  souls, 
and  that  every  atom  of  our  bodies  has  a  soul  of  its  own. 
Far  more  prudent  is  it  to  admit  the  difficulty  once  for 
all,  and  then  let  it  lie  at  rest.  There  is  a  sediment,  in- 
deed, at  the  bottom  of  the  vessel,  but  all  the  water  above 
it  is  clear  and  transparent.  The  Hylozoist  only  shakes 
it  up,  and  renders  the  whole  turbid. 

But  it  is  not  either  the  nature  of  man,  or  the  duty  of 
the  philosopher,  to  despair,  concerning  any  important 
problem,  until,  as  in  the  squaring  of  the  circle,  the  impos- 
sibility of  a  solution  has  been  demonstrated.  How  the 
esse  assumed  as  originally  distinct  from  the  scire,  can 
ever  unite  itself  with  it  ;  how  being  can  transform  itself 
into  a  knorving,  becomes  conceivable  on  one  only  condi- 
tion ;  namely,  if  it  can  be  shown  that  the  vis  representa^ 
tiva,  or  the  sentient,  is  itself  a  species  of  being;  i.  e. 
either  as  a  property  or  attribute,  or  as  an  hy^postasis  or* 
self  subsistence.  The  former  is,  indeed,  the  assumption 
f;f  materialism  ;  a  system  which  could  not  but  be  patroni- 
zed by  the  philosopher,  if  only  it  actually  performed 
what  it  promises.  But  how  any  affection  from  without 
can  metamorphose  itself  into  perception  or  will,  the  ma- 
terialist has  hitherto  left,  not  only  as  incomprehensible  as 
he  found  it,  but  has  aggravated  it  into  a  comprehensible 
absurdity.  For,  grant  that  an  object  from  without  could 
act  upon  the  conscious  self,  as  on  a  consubstantial  object ; 
yet  such  an  affection  could  only  engender  something 
homogeneous  with  itself  Motion  could  only  propagate 
motion.  Matter  has  no  inward.  We  remove  one  slir- 
face  but  to  meet  with  another.  We  can  but  divide  a  par- 
ticle into  particles  ^  and  each  atom  comprehends  in  ite^ 


85 

the  properties  of  the  material  universe.  Let  any  re- 
flecting mind  make  the  experiment  of  explaining  to  itself 
the  evidence  of  our  sensuous  intuitions,  from  the  hypo- 
tliesis  that  in  any  given  perception  there  is  a  something 
which  has  been  communicated  to  it  by  an  impact  or  an 
impression  ab  extra.  In  the  first  place,  by  the  impact 
on  the  percepient  or  ens  representans,  not  the  object 
itself,  but  only  its  action  or  effect,  will  pass  into  the  same. 
Not  the  iron  tongue,  but  its  vibrations  pass  into  the  me- 
tal of  the  bell.  Now  in  our  immediate  perception,  it  is 
not  the  mere  power  or  act  of  the  object,  but  the  object 
itself,  which  is  immediately  present.  We  might,  indeed, 
attempt  to  explain  this  result  by  a  chain  of  deductions  and 
conclusions ;  but  that,  first,  the  very  faculty  of  deducing 
and  concluding  would  equally  demand  an  explanation  ; 
and,  secondly,  that  there  exists,  in  fact,  no  such  interme- 
diation by  logical  notions,  such  as  those  of  cause  and 
effect.  It  is  the  object  itself,  not  the  product  of  a  syllo- 
gism, which  is  present  to  our  consciousness.  Or  would 
we  explain  this  supervention  of  the  object  to  the  sensa- 
tion, by  a  productive  faculty  set  in  motion  by  an  im- 
pulse ;  still  the  transition,  into  the  percepient,  of  the  ob- 
ject itself,  from  w^hich  the  impulse  proceeded,  assumes  a. 
power  that  can  permeate  and  wholly  possess  the  soul, 

"  And,  like  a  God,  by  spiritual  art. 
Be  all  iu  all,  and  all  in  every  part." 

Cowley. 

And  how  came  the  percepient  here  ?  And  what  is  become 
of  the  wonder-promising  matter,  that  was  to  perform  all 
these  marvels  by  force  of  mere  figure,  weight,  and  mo- 
tion ?  The  most  consistent  proceeding  of  the  dogmatic 
materialist  is  to  fall  back  into  the  common  rank  of  soul- 
and-hodyists  ;  to  affect  the  mysterious,  and  declare  the 
whole  process  a  revelation  given,  and  not  to  be  under- 
stood, which  it  would  be  profane  to  examine  too  closely. 
Datur  non  intelligitur.  But  a  revelation  unconfirmed  by 
miracles,  and  a  faith  not  commanded  by  the  conscience, 
a  philosopher  may  venture  to  pass  by,  without  suspect- 
ing himself  of  any  irreligious  tendency. 


86 

Thus,  as  materialism  has  been  generally  taught,  it  is 
utterly  unintelligible,  and  owes  all  its  proselytes  to  the 
propensity  so  common  among  men,  to  mistake  distinct 
images  for  clear  conceptions  ;  and,  vice  versa,  to  reject 
as  inconceivable  whatever  from  its  own  nature  is  unima- 
ginable. But  as  soon  as  it  becomes  intelligible,  it  ceases 
to  be  materialism.  In  order  to  explain  thinking,  as  a  ma- 
terial phenomenon,  it  is  necessary  to  refine  matter  into  a 
mere  modification  of  intelligence,  with  the  two-fold  func- 
tion (ji  appearing  dind  perceiving.  Even  so  did  Priestley  . 
in  his  controversy  with  Price  !  He  stript  matter  of  all  its 
material  properties  ;  substituted  spiritual  powers,  and 
when  we  expected  to  find  a  body,  behold  !  we  had  nothing 
but  its  ghost!   the  apparition  of  a  defunct  substance  ! 

I  shall  not  dilate  further  on  this  subject:  because  it  will 
(if  God  grant  health  and  permission)  be  treated  of  at 
large,  and  systematically,  in  a  work,  which  I  have  many 
years  been  preparing,  on  the  Productive  Logos  human 
and  divine  ;  with,  and,  as  the  introduction  to,  a  full  com- 
mentary on  the  Gospel  of  St.  John  To  make  myself  in- 
telligible as  far  as  my  present  subject  requires,  it  will  be 
sufficient  briefly  to  observe — 1.  That  all  association  de- 
mands and  presupposes  the  existence  of  the  thoughts  and 
images  to  be  associated. — 2.  The  hypothesis  of  an  exter- 
nal world  exactly  correspondent  to  those  images  or  modi- 
fications of  our  own  being,  which  alone  (according  to  this 
system,)  we  actually  behold,  is  as  thorough  idealism  as 
Berkeley's,  inasmuch  as  it  equally  (perhaps,  in  a  more 
perfect  degree)  removes  all  reality  and  immediateness  of 
perception,  and  places  us  in  a  dream-world  of  phantoms 
and  spectres,  the  inexplicable  swarm  and  equivocal  gene- 
ration of  motions  in  our  own  brains.  3.  That  this  hypo- 
thesis neither  involves  the  explanation,  nor  precludes  the 
necessity,  of  a  mechanism  an€l  co-adequate  forces  in  the 
percepient,  which  at  the  more  than  magic  touch  of  the 
impulse  from  without,  is  to  create  anew  for  itself  the  cor- 
i'cspondent  object.  The  formation  of  a  copy  is  not  solv- 
ed by  the  mere  pre-existence  of  an  original  :  the  copyist 
of  Raphael's  Transfiguration  must  repeat  more  or  less 
perfectly  the  process  of  Raphael  It  would  be  ep-^y  to 
explain  a  thought  from  the  image  on  the  retina,  anc:  that 
from  the  geometry  of  ii^ht,  if  this  very  light  did  n-.)i  pre- 
sent the  very   same   difficulty.     We  might  as  rationally 


87 

chant  the  Brahmin  creed  of  the  tortoise  that  supported 
the  bear,  that  supported  the  elephant,  that  supported  the 
world,  to  the  tune  of  "  This  is  the  house  that  Jack  built.'' 
The  sic  Deo  placitum  est  we  all  admit  as  the  sufficient 
cause,  and  the  divine  goodness  as  the  sufficient  reason  ; 
Itut  an  answer  to  the  whence  ?  and  why  ?  is  no  answer  to 
the  how  ?  which  alone  is  the  physiologist's  concern.  It 
is  a  mere  sophisma  pigrum,  and  (as  Bacon  hath  said)  the 
arrogance  of  pusillanimity  which  lifts  up  the  idol  of  a 
mortal's  fancy,  and  commands  us  to  fall  down  and  worship 
it,  as  a  work  of  divine  wisdom,  an  ancile  or  palladium 
fallen  from  heaTen  By  the  very  same  argument  the  sup-<- 
porters  of  the  Ptolemaic  system  might  have  rebuffed  the 
Newtonian,  and  pointing  to  the  sky  with  self-complacent^ 
grin,  have  appealed  to  common  sense,  whether  the  sun  did 
not  move,  and  the  earth  stand  still. 

*  "  And  coxcombs  vanquish  Berkeley  with  a  grin..*'    Pop^* 


86 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Js  philosophy  possible  as  a  science,  and  what  are  its  con- 
ditions ? — Giordano  Bruno — Literary  aristocracy^  or  ike 
existence  of  a  tacit  compact  among  the  learned  as  a  pri» 
vileged  order — The  authors  obligations  to  the  Mystics ; 
— to  Emanuel  Kant — The  difference  between  the  letter 
and  the  spirit  of  Kanfs  writings,  and  a  vindication  of 
prudence  in  the  teaching  of  philosophy — Fichte^s  attempt 
to  complete  the  critical  system — Its  partial  success  and 
ultimate  failure — Obligations  to  Schelling  ;  and,  among 
English  writers,  to  Saumarez, 

After  I  had  successively  studied  in  Ibe  schools  of 
Locke,  Berkeley,  Leibnitz,  and  Hartley,  and  could  find 
in  neither  of  them  an  abiding  place  for  my  reason,  I  be- 
gan to  ask  myself,  is  a  system  of  philosophy,  as  different 
from  mere  history  and  historic  classification,  possible  ?  If 
possible,  what  are  its  necessary  conditions  ?  I  was  for  a 
while  disposed  to  answer  the  first  question  in  the  negative, 
and  to  admit  that  the  sole  practicable  employment  for 
the  human  mind  v/as  to  observe,  to  collect,  and  to  classify. 
But  I  soon  felt,  that  human  nature  itself  fought  up  against 
this  wilful  resignation  of  intellect ;  and  as  soon  did  1  find, 
that  the  scheme,  taken  with  all  its  consequences,  and 
cleared  of  all  inconsistencies,  was  not  less  impracticable, 
than  contra-natural.  Assume,  in  its  full  extent,  the  position, 
nihil  in  intellectu  quod  non  prius  in  sensa,  without  Leib- 
nitz's qualifying  prceter  ipsum  intellectum,  and  in  the  same 
sense  in  which  it  was  understood  by  Hartley  and  Con- 
dillac,  and  what  Hume  had  demonstratively  deduced 
from  this  concession  concerning  cause  and  effect,  will  ap- 
ply with  equal  and  crushing  force  to  all  the*  other  eleven 
categorical  forms,  and  the  logical  functions  corresponding 
to  them.     How  can  we  make  bricks  without  straw  ?  Or 

*  Videlicet ;  quantity,  quality,  relation,  and  mode,  each  consisting  of 
three  subdivisions.  Vide  Kritik  der  reineu  Vernunft,  p,  95,  and  106. 
Sec  too  the  judicioui  remarks  in  Locke  and  Hume. 


89 

build  without  cement?  We  learn  all  things  indeed  by  oc- 
casion of  experience  ;  but  the  very  facts  so  learnt,  force 
us  inward  on  the  antecedents,  that  must  be  pre-supposed 
in  order  to  render  experience  itself  possible  The  first 
book  of  Locke's  Essays  (if  the  supposed  error,  which  it 
labours  to  subvert,  be  not  a  mere  thing  of  straw  ;  an  ab- 
surdity, which,  no  man  ever  did,  or,  indeed,  ever  could 
believe)  is  formed  on  a  S(^(pio-fia  Erff o^nT-naiwr,  and  involves 
the  old  mistake  of  cum  hoc :  ergo,  propter  hoc 

The  term  Philosophy,  defines  itself  as  an  affectionate 
seeking  after  the  truth  ;  but  Truth  is  the  correlative  of 
Being.  This  again  is  no  way  conceivable,  but  by  assum- 
ing as  a  postulate,  that  both  are,  ab  initio,  identical  and  co- 
inherent  ;  that  intelligence  and  being  are  reciprocally 
each  others  Substrate.  I  presumed  that  this  was  a  pos- 
sible conception  (i.  e.  that  it  involved  no  logical  inconso- 
nance)  from  the  length  of  time  during  which  the  scholas- 
tic definition  of  the  Supreme  Beings  as  actus  purissimus 
sine  ulla  potentialitate,  was  received  in  the  schools  of 
Theology,  both  by  the  Pontifician  and  the  Reformed,  di- 
vines. The  early  study  of  Plato  and  Plotinus,  with  the 
commentaries  and  the  Theologia  Platonica,  of  the  illus- 
trious Florentine  ;  of  Proclus,  and  Gemistius  Pletho  : 
and,  at  a  later  period,  of  the  ''  De  Immense  et  Innu- 
merabili,"  and  the  *'  De  la  causa,  principio  et  uno,^^  of 
the  philosopher  of  Nola,  who  could  boast  of  a  Sir  Philip 
Sidney,  and  Fulke  Greville  among  his  patrons,  and  whom 
the^olaters  of  Rome  burnt  as  an  atheist  in  the  year 
1660  ;  had  all  contributed  to  prepare  my  mind  for  the  re- 
ception and  welcoming  of  the  Cogito  quia  sum,  et  sum 
quia  Cogito  ;  a  philosophy  of  seeming  hardihood,  but 
certainly  the  most  ancient,  and  therefore  presumptively, 
the  most  natural. 

Why  need  I  be  afraid  ?  Say  rather  how  dare  I  be 
ashamed  of  the  Teutonic  theosophist,  Jacob  Behmen  ? 
Many,  indeed,  and  gross  were  his  delusions  ;  and  such  as 
furnish  frequent  and  ample  occasion  for  the  triumph  of 
the  learned  over  the  poor  ignorant  shoemaker,  who  had 
dared  to  think  for  himself.  But  while  we  remember  that 
these  delusions  were  such  as  might  be  anticipated  from 
his  utter  want  of  all  intellectual  discipline,  and  from  his 
ignorance  of  rational  psychology,  let  it  not  be  forgotten 
that  the  latter  defect  he  had  in  common  with  the  most 

Vol.  I,  8 


90 

learned  theologians  of  his  age.  Neither  with  books,  nor 
with  book-learned  men  was  he  conversant.  A  meek  and 
shy  quietist,  his  intellectual  powers  were  never  stimu- 
lated into  fev'rous  energy  by  crowds  of  proselytes,  or  by 
the  ambition  of  proselyting.  Jacob  Behmen  was  an  en- 
thusiast, in  the  strictest  sense,  as  not  merely  distinguished, 
but  as  contra-distinguished,  from  a  fanatic.  While  I  in 
part  translate  the  following  observations  from  a  contem- 
porary writer  of  the  Continent,  let  me  be  permitted  to 
premise,  that  I  might  have  transcribed  the  substance 
from  memoranda  of  my  own,  which  were  written  many 
years  before  his  pamphlet  was  given  to  the  world  ;  and 
that  I  prefer  another's  words  to  my  own,  partly  as  a  tri- 
bute due  to  priority  of  publication,  but  still  more  from 
the  pleasure  of  sympathy,  in  a  case  where  coincidence 
only  was  possible. 

Whoever  is  acquainted  with  the  history  of  philosophy, 
during  the  two  or  three  last  centuries,  cannot  but  admit, 
Uiat  there  appears  to  have  existed  a  sort  of  secret  and  ta- 
cit compact  among  the  learned,  not  to  pass  beyond  a  cer- 
tain limit  in  speculative  science.  The  privilege  of  free 
thought,  so  highly  extolled,  has  at  no  time  been  held  va- 
lid in  actual  practice,  except  within  this  limit ;  and  not 
a  single  stride  beyond  it  has  ever  been  ventured  without 
bringing  obloquy  on  the  transgressor.  The  few  men 
of  genius  among  the  learned  class,  who  actually  did 
overstep  this  boundary,  anxiously  avoided  the  appearance 
of  having  so  done.  Therefore,  the  true  depth  of  sciRice, 
and  the  penetration  to  the  inmost  centre,  from  which  all 
the  lines  of  knowledge  diverge,  to  their  ever  distant  cir- 
cumference, was  abandoned  to  the  illiterate  and  the  sim- 
ple, whom  unstilled  yearning,  and  an  original  ebulliency 
of  spirit,  had  urged  to  the  investigation  of  the  indwelling 
and  living  ground  of  all  things.  These,  then,  because 
their  names  had  never  been  inrolled  in  the  guilds  of  the 
learned,  were  persecuted  by  the  registered  livery-men  as 
interlopers  on  their  rights  and  privileges.  All,  without 
distinction,  were  branded  as  fanatics  and  phantasts ;  not 
only  those  whose  wild  and  exorbitant  imaginations  had 
actually  engendered  only  extravagant  and  grotesque  phan- 
tcsms,  and  whose  productions  were,  for  the  most  part,  poor 
aopies  and  gross  caricatures  of  genuine  inspiration  ;  but 
the  truly  inspired  likewise,  the  originals  themselves !  And 


n 

this  for  no  other  reason  but  because  they  were  the  wi- 
learned  men  of  humble  and  obscure  occupations.  When, 
and  from  whom  among  the  Hterati  by  profession,  have  we 
ever  heard  the  divine  doxology  repeated,  "  1  thank  thee 
O  Father  !  Lord  of  Heaven  and  Earth  !  because  thou 
hast  hid  these  things  from  the  wise  and  prudent,  and 
hast  revealed  them  unto  babes  ?"  No  !  the  haughty 
priests  of  learning,  not  only  banished  from  the  schools  and 
marts  of  science  all  who  had  dared  draw  living  waters  from 
the  fountain,  but  drove  them  out  of  the  very  temple, 
which,  mean  time,  *'  buyers,  and  sellers,  and  money 'Chan- 
gers^^  were  suffered  to  make  *'  a  den  of  thieves,''^ 

And  yet  it  would  not  be  easy  to  discover  any  substan- 
tial ground  for  this  contemptuous  pride  in  those  literati, 
who  have  most  distinguished  themselves  by  their  scorn 
of  Behmen,  De  Thoyras,  George  Fox,  &,c.  ;  unless  if 
be,  that  they  could  write  orthographically,  make  smooth 
periods,  and  had  the  fashions  of  authorship  almost  literal- 
ly at  their  fingers^  ends,  while  the  latter,  in  simplicity  of 
soul,  made  their  words  immediate  echoes  of  their  feel- 
ings. Hence  the  frequency  of  those  phrases  among  them, 
which  have  been  mistaken  for  pretences  to  immediate 
inspiration  ;  as  for  instance,  "  it  zvas  delivered  unto  me,^* 
"  /  strove  not  to  speak,^^  "  I  said,  I  will  be  silent,"*"*  "  b^U 
the  TiDord  was  in  heart  as  a  burtiing  Jire,^"'  ^^  and  I  could 
not  forbear,''^  Hence,  too,  the  unwillingness  to  give  of- 
fence ;  hence  the  foresight,  and  the  dread  of  the  cla- 
mours, which  would  be  raised  against  them,  so  frequent- 
ly avowed  in  the  writings  of  these  men,  and  expressed, 
as  was  natural,  in  the  words  of  the  only  book  with  which 
they  were  familiar.  '*  Woe  is  me  that  I  am  become  a 
man  of  strife,  and  a  man  of  contention — I  love  peace  : 
the  souls  of  men  are  dear  unto  me  :  yet  because  1  seek 
for  light  every  one  of  them  doth  curse  me  !"  O  !  it 
requires  deeper  feeling,  and  a  stronger  imagination,  than 
belong  to  most  of  those  to  whom  reasoning  and  fluent 
expression  have  been  as  a  trade  learnt  in  boyhood,  to 
conceive  with  what  might,  with  what  inward  strivings  and 
commotion,  the  perception  of  a  new  and  vital  truth 
takes  possession  of  an  uneducated  man  of  genius.  His 
meditations  are  almost  inevitably  employed  on  the  eter* 
nal,  or  the  everlasting  ;  for  "  the  world  is  not  his  friend, 
nor  the  world's  law.'"*     Need  we  then  be  surprised^  that 


92 

under  an  excitement  at  once  so  strong  and  so  unusual, 
the  man's  body  should  sympathize  with  the  struggles"  of 
his  mind  ;  or  that  he  should  «t  times  be  so  far  deluded 
as  to  mistake  the  tumultuous  sensations  of  his  nerv^es, 
and  the  co-existing  spectres  of  his  fancy,  as  parts  or 
symbols  of  the  truths  which  were  opening  on  him  ?  It 
has  indeed  been  plausibly  observed,  that  in  order  to  de- 
rive any  advantage,  or  to  collect  any  intelligible  meaning, 
from  the  writings  of  these  ignorant  mystics,  the  reader 
must  bring  with  him  a  spirit  and  judgment  superior  to 
that  of  the  writers  themselves  : 

**  And  what  he  brings,  what  needs  he  elsewhere  seek?" 

Paradise  Regained. 

—A  sophism,  which  I  fully  agree  with  Warburton,  is  un- 
worthy of  Milton  ;  how  much  more  so  of  the  awful  per- 
son, in  whose  mouth  he  has  placed  it  ?  One  assertion  I 
will  venture  to  make,  as  suggested  by  my  own  experi- 
ence, that  ther'j  exist  folios  on  the  human  understanding, 
and  the  nature  of  man,  which  would  have  a  far  juster 
claim  to  their  hidi  rank  and  celebrity,  if  in  the  whole 
huge  volume  there  could  be  found  as  much  fulness  of 
heart  and  intellect  as  burst  forth  in  many  a  simple  page 
of  George  Fox,  Jacob  Behmen,  and  even  of  Behmen's 
commentator,  the  pious  and  fervid  William  Law. 

The  feeling  of  gratitude  which  1  cherish  towards 
these  men  has  caused  me  to  digress  further  than  I  had 
foreseen  or  proposed  ;  but  to  have  passed  them  over  in 
an  historical  sketch  of  my  literary  life  and  opinions,  would 
have  seeiued  to  me  like  the  denial  of  a  debt,  the  con- 
cealment of  a  boon.  For  the  writings  of  these  mystics 
acted  in  no  slight  degree  to  prevent  my  mind  from  being 
imprisoned  within  the  outline  of  any  single  dogmatic 
system.  They  contributed  to  keep  alive  the  heart  in 
the  head ;  gave  me  an  indistinct,  yet  stirring  and  work- 
ing presentment,  that  all  the  products  of  the  mere  re- 
^flective  faculty  partook  of  death,  and  were  as  the  rat- 
tling twigs  and  sprays  in  winter,  into  which  a  sap  was 
yet  to  be  propelled  from  some  root  to  which  I  had  not 
})enetrated,  if  they  were  to  afford  my  soul  either  food  or 
shelter.  If  they  were  too  often  a  moving  cloud  of  smoke 
to  me  by  day,  yet  they  were  always  a  pillar  of  tire 
throughout  the  night,  during  my  wanderings  through  the 


03 

wilderness  of  doubt,  and  enabled  me  to  skirt,  without 
crossing,  the  sandy  deserts  of  utter  unbelief.  That  the 
system  is  capable  of  being  conv^erted  into  an  irreligious 
Pantheism,  I  well  know.  The  Ethics  of  Spinoza  may, 
or  may  not,  be  an  instance.  But,  at  no  time  could  I  be- 
lieve, that  in  itself,  and  essentially^  it  is  incompatible  with 
religion,  natural  or  revealed  :  and,  now  I  am  most 
thoroughly  persuaded  of  the  contrary.  The  writings  of 
the  illustrious  sage  of  Konigsberg,  the  founder  of  the 
Critical  Philosophy,  more  than  any  other  work,  at  once 
invigorated  and  disciplined  my  understanding.  The  ori- 
ginality, the  depth,  and  the  compression  of  the  thoughts; 
the  novelty  and  subtlety,  yet  solidity  and  importance,  of 
the  distinctions  ;  the  adamantine  chain  of  the  logic  ;  and, 
I  will  venture  to  add,  (paradox  as  it  will  appear  to  those 
who  have  taken  their  notion  of  Immanuel  Kant,  from 
Reviewers  and  Frenchmen,)  the  clearness  and  evidence 
of  the  ''  Critique  of  the  Pure  Reason  ;"  of  the  Judg- 
ment ;  of  the  "  Metaphisical  Elements  of  Natural 
Philosophy,"  and  of  his  "  Religion  within  the  bounds 
OF  Pure  Reason,"  took  possession  of  me  as  with  a 
giant's  hand.  After  fifteen  years  familiarity  with  them, 
1  still  read  these  and  all  his  other  productions  with  un- 
diminished delight  and  increasing  admiration.  The  few 
passages  that  remained  obscure  to  me,  after  due  efforts 
of  thought,  (as  the  chapter  on  original  apperception,) 
and  the  apparent  contradictions  which  occur,  1  soon 
found  were  hints  and  insinuations  referring  to  ideas, 
which  Kant  either  did  not  think  it  prudent  to  avow,  or 
which  he  considered  as  consistently  left  behind  in  a  pure 
analj'sis,  not  of  human  nature  in  toto,  but  of  the  specu- 
lative intellect  alone.  Here,  therefore,  he  was  con- 
strained to  commence  at  the  point  of  reflection,  or  natural 
consciousness  :  while  in  his  moral  system  he  was  per- 
mitted to  assume  a  higher  ground  (the  autonomy  of  the 
will)  as  a  postulate  deducible  from  the  unconditional 
command,  or  (in  the  technical  language  of  his  school) 
the  categorical  imperative,  of  the  conscience,  lie  had 
been  in  imminent  danger  of  persecution  during  the  reign 
of  the  late  king  of  Prussia,  that  stri:nge  compound  of 
lawless  debauchery,  and  priest-ridden  superstition  :  and 
it  is  probable  that  he  had  little  inchnation,  in  his  old  age. 
Id  act  over  again  the  fortunes  and  hair-breadth  escapes^ 


94 

of  Wolf.  The  expulsion  of  the  first  among  Kant's  dis- 
ciples, who  attempted  to  complete  his  system,  from  the 
university  of  Jena,  with  the  confiscation  and  prohibition 
of  the  obnoxious  work,  by  the  joint  efforts  of  the  courts 
of  Saxony  and  Hanover,  supplied  experimental  proof, 
that  the  venerable  old  man's  caution  was  not  groundless. 
In  spite,  therefore,  of  his  own  declarations,  1  could  never 
believe,  it  was  possible  for  him  to  have  meant  no  more 
by  his  Noume'non^  or  Thing  in  Itself,  than  his  mere 
words  express  ;  or,  that  in  his  own  conception  he  con- 
fined the  whole  plastic  power  to  the  forms  of  the  intel- 
lect, leaving  for  the  external  cause,  for  the  materiale  of 
our  sensations,  a  matter  without  form,  which  is  doubtless 
inconceivable.  1  entertained  doubts  likewise,  whether, 
in  his  own  mind,  he  even  Icjid  all  the  stress,  which  he 
appears  to  do,  on  the  moral  postulates. 

An  IDEA,  in  the  highest  sense  of  that  word,  cannot  be 
conveyed  but  by  a  syinbol  ;  and,  except  in  geometry,  all 
symbols  of  necessity  involve  an  apparent  contrr.diction. 
4)wvticrf  SuviToicTcv :  and  for  those  who  could  not  pierce  through 
this  symbolic  husk,  hii  writings  were  not  intended* 
Questions  which  can  not  be  fiill}^  answered  without  ex- 
posing the  respondent  to  personal  danger,  are  not  enti» 
tied  to  a  fair  answer  ;  and  yet  to  say  this  openly,  would 
in  many  cases  furnish  the  very  advantage  which  the  ad- 
versary is  insidiously  seeking  after.  Veracitv  does  not 
consist  in  saying,  but  in  the  intention  of  communicating 
truth  ;  and  the  philosopher  who  cannot  utter  the  whole 
truth  without  conveying  falsehood,  and  at  the  same  time, 
perhaps,  exciting  the  most  malignant  passions,  is  con- 
strained to  express  himself  either  mythically  or  equivo* 
cally.  When  Kant,  therefore,  was  importuned  to  settle 
the  disputes  of  his  commentators  himself,  by  declaring 
what  he  meant,  how  could  he  decline  the  honours  of 
martyrdom  with  less  offence  than  by  simply  replying, 
*  1  meant  what  I  said,  and  at  the  age  of  near  four  score, 
I  have  something  else,  and  more  important  to  do,  than  to 
write  a  commentary  on  my  own  works." 

Fichte's  Wissenschaftslehre,  or  Lore  of  Ultimate  Sci- 
ence, was  to  add  the  key-stone  of  the  arch  ;  and  by  com- 
mencing with  an  aci,  instead  of  a  thi^ig  or  substance^ 
Fichte  assuredly  gave  the  first  mortal  blow  to-Spinozism, 
SIS  taught  by  Spinoza  himself  :  and  supplied  the  idea  of 


95 

a  system  truly  metaphysical,  and  of  a  metaphysique  truly 
systematic  :  (i.  e.  having  its  spring  and  principle  within 
itself,)  But  this  fundamental  idea  he  overbuilt  with  a 
heavy  mass  of  mere  notions,  and  psychological  acts  of  ar- 
bitrary reflection.  Thus  his  theory  degenerated  into  a 
crude  egoismus,*  a  boastful  and  hyperstoic  hostility  to 
Nature,  as  lifeless,  godless,  and  altogether  unholy  : 
while  his  religion  consisted  in  the  assumption  of  a  mere 
ORDO  ORDINANS,  wbich  we  were  permitted  exoterice  to 
call  God  ;  and  his  ethics  in  an  ascetic,  and  almost  monk- 
ish mortification  of  the  natural  passions  and  desires. 

In  Schelling's  **  Natur-Philosophie,"  and  the  "  Sys- 
tem DES    TRANSCENDENTALEN    IdEALISMUS,"     I    first    fouud 

a  genial  coincidence  with  much  Ihat  1  had  toiled  out  for 
myself,  and  a  powerful  assistance  in  what  I  had  yet  to  do^ 

*  The  following-  burlesque  on  the  Fichtean  Egoismus  mar,  perhaps, 
be  amusing-  to  the  few  who  have  studied  the  system,  and  to'  those  who 
are  unacquainted  with  it,  may  convey  as  tolerable  a  likeness  of  Fichte's 
idealism  as  can  be  expected  trom  anavowed  c?.ricature. 

The  categroricai  imoerative,  or  the  annunciation  of  the  new  Teutonic 
God,  EraENKAinAN  :  adithyrambic  Ode,  by  Qukkkopf  Von  Kluf- 
STicf,  Grammarian,  and  Subrector  inGjmnasio.**** 

Eu  !  Dei  vices  g-erens,  ipse  Divus, 

(Speak  English,  Friend  !)  the  God  Imperativus, 

Here  on  this  market-cross  aloud  I  cry  : 

I,  I,  J!  I  itself  I  ! 

The  form  and  the  substance,  the  what  and  the  why. 

The  when  and  the  where,  and  the  low  and  the  high, 

The  inside  and  outside,  the  earth  and  tlie  sky, 

I,  vou,  and  he,  and  he,  you  and  I, 

All  souls  and  all  bodies  are  I  itself  I ! 

AllI  itself  I  ! 

(Fools  !  a  truce  with  this  startling  .') 

All  my  I  !  all  my  I ! 
He's  a  heretic  dog  who  but  adds  Be'tt}  Martin  I 
Thus  cried  the  God  with  high  imperial  tone  : 
In  robe  of  stiffest  state,  that  scoff  M  at  beauty, 
A  pronoun-verb  imp-^rative  he  shone — 
Then  substantive  and  plural-singular  grown 
He  thus  spake  on  !  Behold  in  I  alone 
(For  ethics  boast  a  syntax  of  their  own) 
Or  if  in  ye,  yet  as  I  doth  depute  ye. 
In  O  !  I,  you,  the  vocative  of  duty  I 
I  of  the  world's  whole  Lexicon  the  root .' 
Of  the  whole  universe  of  touch,  sound,  sight 
The  genitive  and  ablative  to  boot : 
The  ac  usative  of  wrong,  the  nom'native  of  rightf 
And  in  all  cases  the  case  absolute  ! 
Self-construed,  I  all  other  moods  decline  ; 
Imperative,  from  nothing  we  derive  us  \ 
Yet  as  a  supr-r-postulate  of  mine, 
Unconstrued  antecedence  I  assign 
To  X,  Y,  Z,  the  God  infinitivu^  r 


96 

I  have  introduced  this  statement,  as  appropriate  to  the 
narrative  nature  of  this  sketch  ;  yet  rather  in  reference 
to  tlie  work  which  I  have  announced  in  a  preceding  page, 
than  to  niy  present  subject.  It  would  be  but  a  mere  act 
of  justice  to  tnyself,  were  I  to  warn  my  future  readers, 
that  an  identity  of  thought,  or  even  similarity  of  phrase 
-will  not  be  at  all  times  a  certain  proof  that  the  passage 
has  been  borrowed  from  ScheUing,  or  that  the  concep- 
tions were  originally  learnt  from  him.  In  this  instance, 
as  in  the  dramatic  lectures  of  Schlegel  to  which  i  have 
before  alluded,,  from  the  same  motive  of  self  defence 
against  the  charge  of  plagiarism,  many  of  the  most  strik- 
ing resemblances  ;  indeed,  all  the  main  and  fundamental 
ideas,  were  born  and  matured  in  my  mind  before  I  had 
ever  seen  a  single  page  of  the  German  Philosopher^  and 
T  might,  indeed,  affirm  with  truth,  before  the  more  im- 
portant works  of  Schelling  had  been  written^  or  at  least 
made  public.  Nor  is  this  coincidence  at  all  to  be  w^on- 
dered  at.  We  had  studied  in  the  same  school  ;  been 
disciplined  by  the  same  preparatory  philosophy,  namely, 
the  writings  of  Kant  ;  we  had  both  equal  obligations  to 
the  polar  logic  and  dynamic  philosophy  of  Giordano 
Bruno  ;  and  Schelling  has  lately,  and,  as  of  recent  acqui- 
sition, avowed  that  same  affectionate  reverence  for  the 
labours  of  Behmen,  and  other  mysticS;  which  I  had  formed 
at  a  much  earlier  period.  The  coincidence  of  Schel- 
ling's  system  with  certain  general  ideas  of  Behmen,  he 
declares  to  have  been  mere  coincidence  ;  while  my  obli- 
gations have  been  more  direct.  He  needs  give  to  Beh- 
men only  feelings  of  sympathy  ;  while  I  owe  him  a 
debt  of  gratitude.  God  forbid  !  that  I  should  be  sus- 
pected of  a  wish  to  enter  into  a  rivalry  with  Schelling 
for  the  honours  so  unequivocally  his  right,  not  only  as 
a  great  and  original  genius,  but  as  the  founder  of  the 
Philosophy  of  Nature,  and  as  the  most  successful  im- 
prover of  the  Dynamic  System,*  which,   begun  by  Bru- 

*  It  would  be  an  act  of  hi^h  and  almost  criminal  injustice  to  pass  over 
in  silence  the  name  of  Mr,  Richard  Salmahiz,  a  gentlemen  equally  well 
known  as  a  medical  man  and  as  a  philanthropist,  but  who  demands  notice 
on  the  present  occasion  as  the  author  of"  a  new  System  of  Physiolog-y"  in 
two  volumes  octavo,  published  1797  :  and  in  1312' of  *'  An  Examination  of 
the  natural  and  artificial  Systems  of  Philosophy  which  now  prevail,"  in  one 
volume  octavo,  entitled,  '^  The  Principles  of  physiolosrical  and  physical 
science."  The  latter  work  is  not  quite  equal  to  the  former  in  style  or 
arrangement ;  and  there  is  a  greater  necessity  of  distinguishing  the  prin^ 


97 

no,  was  re-introduced  (in  a  more  philosophical  form,  and 
freed  from  all  its  impurities  and  visionary  accompani- 
ments) by  Kant  ;  in  whom  it  was  the  native  and  neces- 
sary growth  of  his  own  system.  Kant's  followers,  howr 
ever,  on  whom  (for  the  greater  part)  their  master's 
cloak  had  fallen,  without,  or  with  a  very  scanty  portion  of, 
his  spirit,  had  adopted  his  dynamic  ideas  only  as  a  more 
refined  species  of  mechanics.  With  exception  of  one  or 
two  fundamental  ideas,  which  cannot  be  withheld  from 
FiGHTE,  to  ScHELLiNG  wc  owe  the  Completion,  and  the 
most  important  victories,  of  this  revolution  in  philosophy. 
To  me  it  vnW  be  happiness  and  honor  enough,  should  I 
succeed  in  rendering  the  system  itself  intelligible  to  my 
countrymen,  and  in  the  application  of  it  to  the  most  aw- 
ful of  subjects  for  the  most  important  of  purposes. 
Whether  a  work  is  the  offspring  of  a  man's  own  spirit, 
and  the  product  of  original  thinking,  will  be  discovered 
by  those  who  are  its  sole  legimate  judges,  by  better 
tests  than  the  mere  reference  to  dates.  For  readers  in 
general,  let  whatever  shall  be  found  in  this,  or  any 
future  work  of  mine,  that  resembles,  or  coincides  with, 
the  doctrines  of  my  German  predecessor,  though  contem- 

ciples  of  the  author's  philosophy  from  his  conjectures  concerning  colour, 
the  atmospheric  matter,  comets,  <&c.  which,  whether  iust  or  erroneous,  are 
by  no  means  necessary  consequences  of  that  philosophy.  Yet  even  in  this 
department  of  this  volume,  which  I  regard  as  comparatively  the  inferior 
work,  the  reasonings  by  which  Mr.  Saumarez  invalidates  the  immanence 
of  an  infinite  power  in  any  finite  substance  are  the  offspring  of  no  common 
mind  ;  and  the  experiment  on  the  expansibility  of  the  air  is  at  least  plausi- 
ble and  highly  ingenious.  But  the  merit,  which  will  secure  both  to  the 
book  and  to  the  writer  a  high  and  honorable  name  with  posterity,  consists 
in  the  masterly  force  of  reasoning,  and  the  copiousness  of  induction,  with 
which  he  has  assailed,  and  (in  my  opinion)  subverted  the  tyranny  of  the 
mechanic  system  in  physiology  ;  established  not  only  the  existence  of  final 
causes,  but  their  necessity  and  efficiency  in  every  system  that  merits  the 
name  of  phylosophical  ;  and  substituting  life  and  progressive  power,  for 
the  contradictory  inert  force,  lias  a  right  to  be  known  and  remembered  as 
the  first  instaurator  of  the  dynamic  philosophy  in  England.  The  au- 
thor's views,  as  far  as  concers  himself,  are  unborrowed  and  completely 
his  own,  as  he  neither  possessed,  nor  do  his  writings  discover,  the 
least  acquaintance  with  the  works  of  Kant,  in  which  the  germs  ofphyloso- 
phv  exist,  and  his  volumes  were  published  many  years  before  the  full  de- 
velopment of  these  germs  bv  Schelling.  Mr.  Saiimarez's  detection  of  the 
Brunonian  system  was  no  fight  or  ordinary  service  at  the  time  :  and  I 
scarcely  remember  in  anv  work  on  any  subject  a  confutation  so  thorough- 
ly satisfactory.  It  is  sufficient  at  this  time  to  have  stated  the  fact;  as  in 
the  preHice  to  the  work,  which  I  have  already  announced  on  the  Logos,  I 
have  exhibited  in  detail  the  merits  of  this  writer  and  genuine  philosopher, 
who  needed  onlv  have  taken  his  foundations  somewhat  deeper  and  widet" 
to  have  superseded  a  considerable  part  of  my  labour?. 


98 

porary,  be  wholly  attributed  to  him :  provided,  that  the 
absence  of  distinct  references  to  his  books,  which  I  could 
not  at  all  times  make  with  truth  as  designating  citations 
or  thoughts  actually  derived  from  him,  and  which,  I 
trust,  would,  after  this  general  acknowledgment,  be  super- 
fluous, be  not  charged  on  me  as  an  ungenerous  conceal- 
ment or  intentional  plagiarism.  I  have  not  indeed 
(eheu  !  res  angusta  domi  I)  been  hitherto  able  to  pro- 
cure more  than  two  of  his  books,  viz.  the  first  volume  of 
his  collected  Tracts,  and  his  System  of  Transcendental 
Idealism  ;  to  which,  however,  I  must  add  a  small  pam- 
phlet against  Fichte,  the  spirit  of  which  was  to  my  feelings 
painfully  incongruous  with  the  principles,  and  which  (with 
the  usual  allowance  afforded  to  an  antithesis)  displayed 
the  love  of  wisdom  rather  than  the  wisdom  of  love.  I 
regard  truth  as  a  divine  ventriloquist  :  I  care  not  from 
whose  mouth  the  sounds  are  supposed  to  proceed,  if  only 
the  word?  are  audible  and  intelligible.  *'  Albeit,  I 
must  confess  to  be  half  in  doubt,  whether  I  should  bring 
it  forth  or  no,  it  being  so  contrary  to  the  eye  of  the 
world,  and  the  world  so  potent  in  most  men's  hearts, 
that  I  shall  endanger  either  not  to  be  regarded  or  not  to 
be  understood." — Milton  :  Reason  of  Church  Government, 

And  to  conclude  the  subject  of  citation,  with  a  cluster 
of  citations,  which  ns  taken  from  books  not  in  common 
use,  may  contribute  to  the  reader's  amusement,  as  a  volun- 
tary before  a  sermon.  ''  Dolet  mihi  quidem  deliciis  li- 
terarum  inescatos  subito  jam  homines  adeo  esse,  praeser-  | 
tim  qui  Christianos  se  profitentur,  et  legere  nisi  quod  ' 
ad  delectationem  fiicit,  sustineant  nihil  :  unde  et  disci- 
plinas  severiores  et  philosophia  ipsa  jam  fere  prorsus 
etiam  a  doctis  negliguntur.  Quod  quidem  propositura 
studiorum,  nisi  mature  corrigitur,  tarn  magnum  rebus  in- 
commodum  dabit,  quam  dedit  Barbaries  olim.  Pertinax 
res  Barbaries  est,  fateor :  sed  minus  potest  tamen,  quam 
ilia  molhties  et  persuasa  prudejitia  literarum,  quae  si 
ratione  caret,  sapiential  virtutisque  specie  mortales  misere 
circumducit.  Succedet  igitur,  ut  arbitror,  baud  ita 
multo  post,  pro  rusticana  seculi  nostri  ruditate  captatrix 
ilia  communiloqucjitia  robur  animi  virilis  omne,  omnem 
virtutem  masculam  prot^igatura,  nisi  cavetur." 

Simon  GRVNiEus,  candido  lectori,  prefixed  to  the  Latin 
translation  of  Plato,  by  Marsilius  Ficiaus.     Lugduni,  1 557. 


99 

A  too  prophetic  remark,  which  has  been  in  fulfihnent 
from  the  year  1680  to  the  present,  1815.  JV.  B,  By 
*'  persuasa  prudentia,"  Gryna^us  means  self-complacent 
common  sense  as  opposed  to  science  and  philosophic  rea- 
son. 

**  Est  medius  ordo  et  velut  equestris  Tngeniorum  qui- 
dem  sagacium  et  rebus  humanis  commodorum,  non  tamen 
in  primam  magnitudinem  patentium.  Eorum  homimim,  ut 
i(a  dicam,  major  annona  est.  Sedulum  esse,  nihil  teme- 
re  ioqui,  assuescere  labori,  et  imagine  prudentiae  et  mo- 
destiae  tegere  angustiores  partes  captus  dum  exercitatio- 
nem  et  usum.  quo  isti  in  civilibus  rebus  pollent,  pro  natu* 
ra  et  magnitudine  ingenn  plerique  accipiunt." 

Barclaii  Argenis,  p.  71. 

**  As,  therefore,  physicians  are  many  times  forced  to 
leave  such  methods  of  curing  as  themselves  know  to  be 
fittest,  and,  being  over-ruled  by  the  sick  man's  impatience, 
are  fain  to  try  the  best  they  can  ;  in  like  sort,  consider- 
ing how  the  case  dotli  stand  with  the  present  age,  full  of 
tongue  and  weak  of  brain,  behold  we  would,  (if  our  sub' 
jecl  permitted  it  J  yield  to  the  stream  thereof  That  way 
we  would  be  contented  to  prove  our  thesis,  which,  being 
the  worse  in  itself,  notwithstanding,  is  now,  by  reason  of 
common  imbecility,  the  fitter  and  likelier  to  be  brook- 
ed."— Hooker. 

If  this  fear  could  be  rationally  entertained  in  the  con- 
troversial age  of  Hooker,  under  the  then  robust  discipline 
of  the  scholastic  logic,  pardonably  may  a  writer  of  the 
present  times  anticipate  a  scanty  audience  for  abstrusest 
themes,  and  truths  that  can  neither  be  communicated  nor 
received  without  effort  of  thought,  as  well  as  patience  of 
attention. 

•*  Che  s'io  non  erro  al  calcular  de'  punti, 

Par  ch'  Asinini  Stella  a  noi  predomini, 

E'l  Somaro  e'l  castron  si  sian  conginnti. 

II  tempo  d'Apuleio  pin  non  si  nomini  : 

Che  se  allora  uq  sol  Huom  sembrava  un  Asino, 

Mille  Asini  a  raiei  di  rassembran  Huomini !" 

Di  Salva-torRosa,  Satir.  I.  1,  10. 


100 


CHAPTER  X. 

d  chapter  of  digression  and  anecdotes^  as  an  interlude 
preceding  that  on  the  nature  and  genesis  of  the  imagi- 
nation or  plastic  pother — On  pedantry  and  pedantic  ex- 
pressions— Advice  to  young  authors  respecting  publ'ca* 
tion — Various  anecdotes  of  the  author's  literary  life^ 
and  the  progress  of  his  opinions  in  religion  and 
politics.  . 

•  **  EsempJastic.     The  word  is  not  in  Johnson^  nor  have 
I  7net  with  it  elsewhere  "     Neither  have  I!   I  constructed 
it  myself  from  the  Greek  words,  tn  fv  nKaneiv  i.  e.  to  shape 
into  one  ;    because,   having  to  convey  a   new  sen.«e,   I 
thought  that  a  new  term  would   both  aid  the  recollection 
of  my  meaning,  and  prevent  its  be^ng  confounded  with 
the  usual  import  of  the  word  imaginatiion.     "  But  this  is 
pedantry  !^^     Not   necessarily  so,   I  hope.     If  I  am  not 
misinformed,  pedantry  consists  in  the  use  of  words  un- 
suitable to  the  time,  place,  and  company.     The  language 
of  the  market  would  be  in  the  schools  as  pedantic,  though, 
it  might  not  be  reprobated  by  that  name,  as  the  language 
of  the  schools  in  the  market.     The  mere  man  of  the  world, 
who  insists  that  no  other  terms  but  such  as  occur  in  com* 
mon  conversation  should  be  employed  in  a  scientific  dis-^ 
quisition,   and,   with   no  greater  precision,  is  as  truly  a 
pedant  as  the  man  of  letters,  who,  either  over-rating  the 
acquirements  of  his  auditors,  or  misled  by  his  own  fa- 
miliarity with  technical  or  scholastic  terms,  converses  at 
the  wine-table  with  his  mind  fixed  on  his  musaeum  or  Ia«4j| 
boratory  ;  even  though  the  latter  pedant,   instead  of  de-K 
siring  his  wife  to  make  the  tea,  should  bid  her  add  to  thfi 
quant,   sufif.  of  thea  sinensis   the  oxyd  of  hydrogen  satu-' 
rated  with  caloric.     To  use  the  colloquial,  (and,  in  tiutb, 
somewhat  vulgar,)  metaphor,  if  the  pedant  of  the  cloys- 
ter,   and  the  pedant  of  the  lobby,    both   smetl  equally  of  I  ^ 
the  shop,  yet  the  odour  from  the  Russian  binding  of  good     * 
old  authentic-looking  folios  and  quartos,  is  less  annoying'    ^ 
than  the  steams  from  the  tavern  or  bagnio.     Nay,  though 


101 

the  pedantry  of  the  scholar  should  betray  a  little  osten- 
tation,  yet  a  well-conditioned  mind  would  more  easily, 
methinks,  tolerate  the  Jbx  brush  of  learned  vanity,  than 
the  sans  culotterie  of  a  contemptuous  ignorance,  that  as- 
sumes a  merit  from  mutilation  in  the  self-consoling  sneer 
at  the  pompous  incumbrance  of  tails. 

The  first  lesson  of  philosophic  discipline  is  to  wean  the 
student's  attention   from  the   degrees  of  things,    which 
alone  form  the  v^ocabulary  of  common  life,  and  to  direct 
it  to  the  KIND,  abstracted  from  degree.     Thus  the  chemi- 
cal student  is  taught  not  to  be  startled  at  disquisitions  on 
the  heat  in  ice,   or  on  latent  and  fixible  liglit.      In  such 
discourse,  the    instructor  has    no  other  alternative  than 
either  to  use  old   words  with   new  meanings,  (the  plan 
adopted  by  Darwin  in   his  Zoonomia,)  or  to  introduce 
new  terms,  after  the  example  of  Linnaeus,  and  the  framers 
of  the  present  chemical  nomenclature.     The  latter  mode 
is  evidently  preferable,  were  it  only  that  the  former  de- 
mands a  two-fold  exertion  of  thought  in  one  and  the  same 
act.     For  the  reader  (or  hearer)  is  required  not  only  to 
learn  and  bear  in  mind  thejnew  definition  ;  but  to  unlearn, 
and  keep  out  of  his  view,  the  old  and  habitual  meaning  ; 
a  far  more  difficult  and  perplexing  task,  and  for  which 
the  mere  semblance  of  eschewing  pedantry  seems  to  me 
an  inadequate  compensation.     Where,  indeed,  it  is  in  our 
power  to  recall  an  appropriate  term  that  had,  without  suf- 
ficient reason,  become  obsolete,  it  is  doubtless  a  less  evil 
to  restore  than  to  coin  anew.     Thus,  to  express  in  one 
word  all  that  appertains  to  the  perception  considered  as 
passive,  and  merely  recipient,   I  have  adopted  from  our 
elder  classics  the  word  sensuous  ;    because  sensual  is  noi 
at  present  used    except  in  a  bad  senise,  or  at  least  as  a  mo- 
ral distinction,  while  sensitive  and  sensible  would    each 
convey  a  different  moarjing.     Thus,  too,  1  have  followed 
Hooker,  Sanderson,  Milton,  &:c.  in  deisunating  the  irnme- 
diateness  of  any  act  or  object  of  knowledge  by  the  word 
intuition^  used  sometimes  subjectively,  sometimes  objec- 
tively, even  as  we  use  the  word,  thought  ;  now  as  thfi 
thought,  or  act  of  thinking,  and  now^  as  a  thought,  or  the 
object  of  our  reflection;  and  we  do  this  without  confusion 
or  obscurity.     The  very  words  objective  and  subjective^  of 
such  consonant   recurrence    in   the  schools  of  yore,    l 
have  ventured  to  reintroduce,  because  I  could  not   so 

Vol.  I.  9 


102 

briefly,  or  conveniently,  by  any  more  familiar  term§,  dis- 
tinguish the  percipere  from  the  percipi.  Lastly,  1  have 
cautiously  discriminated  the  terms,  the  reason,  and  the 
UNDERSTANDING,  encouragcd  and  confirmed  by  the  au- 
thority of  our  genuine  divines  and  philosophers,  before 
the  revolution  : 

, «» both  life,  and  sense. 

Fancy,  and  understanding  :  whence  the  soul 
Reason  receives,  and  reason  is  her  beings 
DiscussTVE  or  intuitive.     Discourse* 
Is  oftest  your's,  the  latter  most  is  our's, 
DiiFering  but  in  degree^  in  kind  the  same." 

PARADisi:  Lost,  Book  V. 

I  say,  that  I  was  confirmed  by  authority  so  venerable  ; 
for  I  had  previous  and  higher  motives  in  my  own  convic- 
tion of  the  importance,  nay,  of  the  necessity  of  the  dis-  " 
tinction,  as  both  an  indispensable  condition  and  a  vital  part 
of  all  sound  speculation  in  metaphysics,  ethical  or  theo- 
logical. To  establish  this  distinction  was  one  main  ob- 
ject of  The  Friend  ;  if  even  in  a  biography  of  my 
own  literary  life  I  can  with  propriety  refer  to  a  work 
which  was  printed  rather  than  published,  or  so  published 
that  it  had  been  well  for  the  unfortunate  author  if  it  had 
remained  in  manuscript  !  I  have  even  at  this  time  bitter 
cause  for  remembering  that  which  a  number  of  my  sub- 
scribers have  but  a  trifling  motive  for  forgetting.  This 
effusion  might  have  been  spared  ;  but  I  would  fain  flatter 
myself  that  the  reader  will  be  less  austere  than  an  orien- 
tal professor  of  the  bastinado,  who,  during  an  attempt  to 
extort  per  argumentum  baculinum  a  full  confession  from 
a  culprit,  ihterrapted  his  outcry  of  pain  by  reminding 
him  that  it  was  "  a  mere  digression  T'  All  this  noise.  Sir  1 
is  nothing  to  the  point,  and  no  sort  of  answer  to  my 
QUESTIONS  !  Ah  !  hut  (replied  the  suff'erer)  it  is  the  most 
pertinent  reply  in  nature  to  your  blows, 

*  But  for  sundry  notes  on  Shakspeare,  fee.  which  have  fallen  in  my  war, 
I  should  have  deemed  it  unnecessary  to  observe,  thsii  discourse  here,  or  else- 
where, does  not  mean  what  we  rwrv  call  discoursing  ;  but  the  diicursion  of 
the  mindy  the  processes  ofgenerali/alion  and  sul)Sumi5tion,  of  deduction  and 
conclusion.  Tiius.  philosophy  has  hitherto  been  discursive,  while  Geo- 
metry is  alwaySf  aod  essenMlr/f  intiitive. 


103 

An  imprudent  man,  of  common  goodness  of  heart,  can- 
not but  wish  to  turn  even  his  imprudences  to  the  benefit 
of  others,  as  far  as  this  is  possible.     If,  therefore,  any  one 
of  the  readers  of  this  semi-narrative  should  be  preparing 
or  intending  a  periodical  work,  I  warn  him,  in  the  first 
place,  against  trusting  in  the  number  of  names  on  his  sub- 
scription list.     For  he  cannot  be  certain  that  the  names 
were  put  down  by  sufficient  authority  ;  or  should  that  be 
ascertained,  it  still  remains  to  be  known,  whether  they 
were  not  extorted  by  some  over  zealous  friend's  impor- 
tunity ;   whether  the  subscriber  had  not  yielded  his  name 
merely  from  want  of  courage  to  answer  no  !    and  with  the 
intention  of  dropping  the  work  as  soon  as  possible.     One 
gentleman  procured  me  nearly  a  hundred  names  for  The 
Friend,    and   not  only  took  frequent  opportunity  to  re- 
mind me  of  his  success  in  his  canvas,  but  laboured  to  im- 
press my  mind  with  the  sense  of  the  obligation  I  was  un- 
der to  the  subscribers  ;    for  (as  he  very  pertinently  ad* 
monished  me)  ^'Jifty-two  shillings  a  year  was  a  large  sum 
to  be  bestowed  on  one  individual,  where  there  were  so 
many  objects  of  charity  with  strong  claims  to  the  assistance 
of  the  benevolent."     Of  these  hundred  patrons  ninety 
threw  up  the  publication  before  the  fourth  number,  with- 
out any  notice  ;    though  it  was  well  known  to  them,  that 
in  consequence  of  the  distance,  and  tlowness  and  irregu- 
larity of  the  conveyance,   I   was  compelled  to  lay  in  a 
stock  of  stamped  paper  for  at  least  eight  weeks  before- 
hand ;    each  sheet  of  which  stood  me  in  five  pence  pre- 
vious to  its  arrival  at  my  printer's  ;   though  the  subscrip- 
tion money  was  not  to  be  received  till  the  twenty-first 
week  after  the  commencement  of  the  work  ;    and  lastly, 
though  it  was  in  nine  cases  out  often  impracticable  for  me 
to  receive  the  money  for  two  or  three  numbers,  without 
paying  an  equal  sum  for  the  postage. 

In  confirmation  of  my  first  caveat,  I  will  select  one 
fact  among  many.  On  my  list  of  subscribers,  among  a 
considerable  number  of  names  equally  flattering,  was 
that  of  an  Earl  of  Cork,  with  his  address.  He  might  as 
well  have  been  an  Earl  of  Bottle,  for  aught  /  knew  of 
him,  who  had  been  content  to  reverence  the  peerage  in 
abstracto,  rather  than  in  concretis.  Of  course,  The 
Friend  was  regularly  sent  as  far,  if  I  remember  rights 
as  the   eighteenth  number,  i,  e.  till  a  fortnight  before 


104 

the  subscription  was  to  be  paid.  And  lo  I  just  at  this 
time  I  received  a  letter  from  his  lordship,  reproving  me 
in  language  far  more  lordly  than  courteous,  for  my  impu- 
dence in  directing  my  pamphlets  to  him,  who  knew  no- 
thing of  me  or  my  work  !  Seventeen  or  eighteen  numbers 
of  which,  however,  his  lordship  was  pleased  to  retain, 
probably  for  the  cuhnary  or  post-cuhnary  conveniences 
of  his  servants. 

Secondly,  I  warn  all  others  from  the  attempt  to  devi- 
ate from  the  ordinary  mode  of  publishing  a  work  by  the 
trade.  I  thought,  indeed,  that  to  the  purchaser  it  was 
indifferent,  whether  thirty  per  cent,  of  the  purchase- 
money  went  to  the  booksellers  or  to  the  government  ; 
and  that  the  convenience  of  receiving  the  work  by  the 
post  at  his  own  door  would  give  the  preference  to  the 
jatter.  It  is  hard,  I  own,  to  have  been  labouring  for 
years,  in  collecting  and  arranging  the  materials  ;  to  have 
spent  every  shilling  that  could  be  spared  ai\er  the  neces- 
saries of  life  had  been  furnished,  in  buying  books,  or  in 
journies  for  the  purpose  of  consulting  them,  or  of  acquir- 
ing facts  at  the  fountain  head  ;  then  to  buy  the  paper, 
pay  for  the  printing,  ^o.  all  at  least  fifteen  per  cent,  be- 
yond what  the  trade  would  have  paid  ;  and  then,  after  all, 
to  give  thirty  per  cent,  not  of  the  nett  protits,  but  of  the 
gross  results  of  the  gale,  to  a  man  who  has  merely  to  give 
the  books  shelf  or  warehouse  room,  and  permit  his  ap- 
prentice to  hand  them  over  the  counter  to  those  who 
may  ask  for  them  ;  and  this  too,  copy  by  copy,  although 
if  the  work  be  on  any  philosophical  or  scientific  subject, 
it  may  be  years  before  the  edition  is  sold  off.  All  this,  I 
confess,  must  seem  a  hardship,  and  one  to  which  the  pro- 
ducts of  industry  in  no  other  mode  of  exertion  are  sub- 
ject. Yet  even  this  is  better,  far  better,  than  to  attempt 
in  any  way  to  unite  the  functions  of  author  and  publisher. 
But  the  most  prudent  mode  is  to  sell  the  copy-right,  at 
least  of  one  or  more  editions,  for  the  most  that  the  trade 
will  offer.  By  few,  only,  can  a  large  remuneration  be 
expected  ;  but  fifty  pounds  and  ease  of  mind  are  of  more 
real  advantage  to  a  literary  man,  than  the  chance  of  five 
hundred,  with  the  certainty  of  insult  and  degrading  anxie- 
ties. 1  shall  have  been  grievously  misunderstood,  if  this 
statement  should  be  interpreted  as  written  with  the  de- 
sire of  detracting  from  the  character  of  booksellers  o^ 


105 

publishers.  The  individuals  did  not  make  the  laws  and 
customs  of  their  trade  ;  but,  as  in  every  other  trade,  take 
them  as  they  find  them.  Till  the  evil  can  be  proved  to 
be  removable,  and  without  the  substitution  of  an  equal  or 
greater  inconvenience,  it  were  neither  wise  nor  manly  even 
to  complain  of  it.  But  to  use  it  as  a  pretext  for  speaking*, 
or  even  for  thinking,  or  feeling,  unkindly  or  opprobriously 
of  the  tradesmen,  as  individuals,  would  be  something  worse 
than  unwise  or  even  than  unmanly  ;  it  would  be  immoral 
and  calumnious  !  My  motives  point  in  a  far  different  di- 
rection, and  to  far  other  objects,  as  will  be  seen  in  the 
conclusion  of  the  chapter. 

A  learned  and  exemplary  old  clergyman,  who  many 
years  ago  went  to  his  reward,  followed  by  the  regrets  and 
blessings  of  his  flock,  published,  at  his  own  expense,  two 
volumes  octavo,  entitled,  a  new  Theory  of  Redemption. 
The  work  was  most  severely  handled  in  the  Monthly  or 
Critical  Review,  I  forget  which  ;  and  this  unprovoked 
hostility  became  the  good  old  man's  favourite  topic  of  con- 
versation among  his  friends.  Well !  (he  used  to  exclaim,)  in 
the  sEcoxD  edition,  I  shall  have  an  opportunity  of  exposing 
both  the  ignorance  and  the  malignity  of  the  anonymous  critic. 
Two  or  three  years,  however,  passed  by  without  any 
tidings  from  the  bookseller,  who  had  undertaken  the 
printing  and  publication  of  the  work,  and  who  was  per- 
fectly at  his  ease,  as  the  author  was  known  to  be  a  maa 
of  large  property.  At  length  the  accounts  were  written 
for  ;  and  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks  they  were  present- 
ed by  the  rider  for  the  house,  in  person.  My  old  friend 
put  on  his  spectacles,  and  holding  the  scroll  with  no  very 
firm  hand,  began — Paper,  so  much:  O  moderate  enough 
— not  at  all  beyond  my  expectation !  Printing,  so  much  : 
Well  I  moderate  enough  !  Stiching,  covers,  advertisements, 
carriage,  4*c.  so  much. — Still  nothing  amiss.  Selleridge, 
(for  orthography  is  no  necessary  part  of  a  bookseller's 
iiteraiy  acqmrements,)  £3.  3s.  Bless  me  !  only  three 
guineas  for  the  what  d'ye  call  it  ?  the  selleridge  ?  No 
more.  Sir  I  replied  the  rider.  Nay,  but  that  is  too  mo- 
derate !  rejoined  my  old  friend.  Only  three  guineas  for 
selling  a  thousand  copies  of  a  work  in  two  volumes  ?  O 
Sir  !  (cries  the  young  traveller,)  you  have  mistaken  the 
word.  There  have  been  none  ofthemso/f?;  they  have 
been  sent  back  from  London  long  ago  ;  and  this  £3.  3^. 
9* 


106 

js  lor  the  cellandge^  ov  warehouse-room  in  our  book  cel- 
lar. The  work  was  in  consequence  preferred  froixj  the 
ominous  cellar  of  the  pubhsher  to  the  author's  garret  ; 
and  oD  presenting  a  copy  to  an  acquaintance,  the  old  gen- 
tlerncU3  used  to  tell  the  anecdote  with  great  humour,  and 
still  greater  good  nature. 

With  equal  lack  of  worldly  knowledge,  1  was  a  far 
more  than  equal  sufferer  for  it,  at  the  very  outset  of  my 
authorship.  Toward  ihe  close  ot  the  iirst  year  troin  the 
time  that,  in  an  inaub|»icious  hour  I  left  the  friendly  cluis- 
ters,  and  the  iiappy  grove  oi  quiet,  ever  honoured  Jesus 
College,  Cambridi^e,  i  \\m  persuaded  by  sundry  Philan- 
thropists and  Anii-p(''emists  to  set  on  foot  a  periodical 
work,  entitled  The  Watchman,  that  (according  to  the 
general  motto  ot  the  work)  all  might  know  the  truths  and 
ihat  the  truth  might  rnakt  us  free  !  In  order  to  exempt  it 
from  the  sihiiip  tax,  and  likewise  to  contribute  as  little 
as  possible  to  the  supposed  guilt  of  a  war  against  freedom, 
it  v^a^  to  be  pablihhed  on  every  eighth  day,  thirty-two 
page§,  lar^'e  octavo,  closely  printed,  and  price  only  four- 
PFNCE.  Accordingly,  witti  a  flaming  prospectus  ''  Know* 
ledge  is  t'ower^'*  4'C.  to  try  the  state  of  the  political  at' 
mosphere^  and  so  forth,  1  set  oft'  on  a  tour  to  the  north, 
from  Bristt>l  to  Sheffield,  for  the  purpose  of  procuring 
€u>tomer6,  preaching  by  the  way  in  most  of  the  great 
towns,  as  an  hirele^i  volualeer,  in  a  blue  coal  and  white 
waistcoat,  that  not  a  rag  of  the  woman  of  Babylon  might 
be  seen  on  me.  For  1  was  at  that  time,  and  long  after, 
though  a  Trinitarian  (i.  e.  ad  normam  Flatonis)  in  philo- 
sophy, yet  a  zealous  Unitarian  in  religion  ;  more  accu-  | 
rately,  I  was  a  psilanthropist,  one  of  those  who  believe 
our  Lord  to  have  been  the  real  son  of  Joseph,  and  who 
lay  the  main  stress  on  the  resurrection  rather  than  on  the 
crucifixion  O  !  never  can  I  remeiJiber  those  days  with 
eiiiier  shame  or  regret.  For  f  was  most  sincere,  most 
disinterested  !  My  opinions  were,  indeed,  in  many  and 
most  important  points  erroneous  ;  but  my  heart  was  sm- 
gle.  M  eaith,  rank,  life  itself,  then  seemed  cheap  to  me, 
compared  with  the  interests  ot  (what  I  believed  to  be) 
the  truth  and  the  will  of  my  n)aker.  I  cannot  even  ac- 
cuse myself  of  havina  bet  n  actuated  by  vanity;  for  in 
the  expansion  of  my  enlbubiasm,  i  did  not  think  of  myself 
atitU. 


107 

My  campaign  comraenced  at  Birmingham  ;  and  my  first 
attack  was  on  a  rigid  Calvinist,  a  tallow  chandler  by 
trade-  He  was  a  tall  dingy  man,  in  whom  length  was  so 
predominant  over  breadth,  that  he  might  almost  have  been 
borrowed  for  a  foundery  poker  O  that  face  !  a  face 
KOTfi^^pao-iv !  1  have  it  be.'ore  nje  at  this  moment.  The  lank, 
black,  twine-like  halr.pingui  nitescent^  cut  in  a  strait  line 
along  the  black  stubble  of  his  thin  gunpowder  eye  brows, 
that  looked  like  a  scorched  after-math  from  a  last  week's 
shaving.  His  coat  collar  behind  in  perfect  unison,  both 
of  colour  and  lustre,  with  the  coarse  yet  glib  cordage,  that 
1  suppose  he  called  his  hair,  and  which,  with  a  bend  in- 
ward at  the  nape  of  the  neck,  (the  only  approach  to  flex- 
ure in  his  whole  figure,)  slunk  in  behind  his  waistcoat  ; 
while  the  countenance,  lank,  dark,  very  hard  and  with 
strong  perpendicular  furrows,  gave  me  a  dim  notion  of 
some  one  looking  at  me  through  a  used  gridiron,  all  soot, 
grease,  and  iron  !  But  he  was  one  of  the  thorough  bred, 
a  true  lover  of  liberty,  and  (1  was  informed;  had  proved 
to  the  satisfaction  of  many,  that  Mr.  Pitt  was  one  of  the 
horns  of  the  second  beast  in  the  Revelations,  that  spoke 
like  a  dragon.  A  person,  to  whoni  one  of  my  letters  of 
recommendation  had  been  addressed,  was  my  introducer. 
It  was  a  new  event  in  my  life,  my  first  stroke  in  the  new 
business  1  had  undertakeii  of  an  author,  yea,  and  of  an 
author  trading  on  his  own  account.  My  companion,  after 
soiiie  imperfect  sentences,  and  a  multitude  of  hums  and 
haas,  abandoned  the  cause  to  his  client ;  and  f  commenced 
an  harangue  of  half  an  hour  to  Ihileleutheros,  the  tallow- 
chandler,  varying  my  notes  through  the  whole  gamut  of 
^  eloquence,  from  the  ratiocinative  to  the  declamatory,  and 
in  the  latter  from  the  pathetic  to  the  indignant  1  argued, 
I  described,  i  promised,  1  prophecied  ;  and  beginning 
with  the  ca[)tivity  of  nations,  1  ended  with  the  near  ap- 
proach o\'  the  milienium,  finishing  the  whole  with  some 
of  my  own  v  erses  describing  that  glorious  state  oul  of  the 
Religious  Musings  ; 


•  Such  delights, 


As  float  to  earth,  permitted  visitants^! 
When  ill  some  huui  of  solemti  jubdee 
The  massive  gales  of  Paradise  are  thrown 
"Wide  open:  and  fortiicome  in  fragmeuls  wild 


108 

Sweet  echoes  of  unearthly  melodies, 
And  odours  snatch'd  from  beds  of  Amaranth, 
And  they  that  from  tlie  chrystal  river  of  life 
Spring  up  on  freshen'd  wing-s,  ambrosial  gales ! 

Religious  Musings^  1.  356 

My  taper  man  of  lights  listened  with  perseverant  and 
praise-worthy  patience,  though  (as  I  was  afterwards  told 
on  complaining  of  certain  gales  that  were  not  altogether 
ambrosial)  it  v/as  a  melting  day  with  him.  And  what, 
Sir!  (he  said  after  a  short  pause)  might  the  cost  be  ?  Only 
FOUR-PENCE,  (O  !  how  I  felt  the  anti-climax,  the  abysmal 
bathos  o{  \\\:ii  four -pence  t)  only  four  pence  ^  Sir,  each 
number ,  to  be  published  on  every  eighth  day.  That  comes 
to  a  deal  of  money  at  the  end  of  a  year.  And  how  much 
did  you  say  there  was  to  be  for  the  money  ?  Thirty-two 
pages.  Sir  !  large  octave,  closely pnnted.  Thirty  and  two 
pages  ?  Bless  me,  why  except  what  1  does  in  a  family 
way^  on  the  Sabbath,  that's  more  than  1  ever  reads,  Sir ! 
all  the  year  round.  1  am  as  great  a  one,  as  any  man  in 
Brummagem,  Sir  !  for  liberty  and  truth,  and  all  them  sort 
of  things,  but  as  to  this  (no  offence,  I  hope.  Sir  !)  I  must 
beg  to  be  excused. 

So  ended  my  first  canvass  ;  from  causes  that  I  shall 
presently  mention,  I  made  but  one  other  application  in 
person.  This  took  place  at  Manchester,  to  a  stately  and 
opulent  wholesale  dealer  in  cottons.  He  took  my  letter 
of  introduction,  and  having  perused  it,  measured  me  from 
head  to  foot,  and  again  from  foot  to  head,  and  then  asked 
if  1  had  any  bill  or  invoice  of  the  thing  ;  1  presented 
my  prospectus  to  him  ;  he  rapidly^  skimmed  and  hummed 
over  the  first  side,  and  still  more  rapidly  the  second  and 
concluding  page  ;  crushed  it  within  his  fingers  and  the 
palm  of  his  hand  ;  then,  most  deliberately  and  signiji- 
cantly  rubbed  and  smoothed  one  part  against  the  other  ; 
and,  lastly,  putting  it  into  his  pocket,  turned  his  back  on 
me  w^ith  an  '*  over  rim  with  these  articles  !"  and  so  with- 
out another  syllable,  retired  into  his  counting-house  ;  and, 
I  can  truly  say,  to  my  unspeakable  amusement. 

This,  I  have  said,  was  my  secon  1  and  last  attempt. 
On  returning  baffled  from  the  first,  in  which  I  had  vainly 
essay^ed  to  repeat  the  miracle  of  Orpheus  with  the  Brum- 
inagem  patriot,  I  dined  with  the  tradesman  who  had  in" 


109 

troduced  me  to  him.  After  dinner,  be  importuned  me  to 
smoke  a  pipe  with  him,  and  two  or  three  other  illuminati 
of  the  same  rank  I  objected,  both  because  1  was  en- 
gaged to  spend  the  evening  with  a  minister  and  his  friends, 
and  because  {  had  never  smoked  except  once  or  twice  in 
my  life  lime,  and  then  it  was  herb  tobacco  mixed  with 
Oronooko,  On  the  assurance,  however,  that  the  tobacco 
\V3S  equally  mild,  ^nd  seeing,  too,  that  it  was  of  a  ytl* 
low  colour  ;  (not  forgetting  the  lamentable  difficulty  I 
have  alwaj^s  experienced  in  saying  no!  and  in  abstain- 
ing from  what  the  people  about  me  were  doing,)  I  took 
half  a  pipe,  filling  the  lower  half  of  the  bowl  w'ith  salt. 
I  was  soon,  however,  compelled  to  resign  it  in  conse- 
quence of  a  giddiness  and  distressful  feeling  in  my  eyes^ 
which,  as  I  had  drank  but  a  single  glass  of  ale  must,  I 
knew,  have  been  the  effect  of  the  tobacco.  Soon  after, 
deeming  myself  recovered,  f  sallied  forth  to  my  engage- 
ment, but  the  waik  and  the  fresh  air  brought  on  all  the 
symptoms  again,  and  1  had  scarcely  entered  the  minis- 
ter's drawing  room,  and  opened  a  small  pacquet  of  letters, 
which  he  had  received  from  Bristol  for  me.  ere  1  sunk 
back  on  the  sofa  in  a  sort  of  swoon  rather  than  sleep. 
Fortunately,  I  had  found  just  time  enough  to  inform  him 
of  the  confused  state  of  my  feelmgs,  and  of  the  occa- 
sion. For  here  and  thus  I  lay,  my  face  like  a  wo  11  that 
is  white-washing,  deathly  pale,  and  with  the  cold  drops 
of  perspiration  running  down  it  from  my  forehead,  while, 
one  after  anolher,  there  dropt  in  the  diflerent  gentlemen 
who  had  been  invited  to  meet  and  spend  the  evening  with 
me,  to  the  number  of  from  fifteen  to  twenty.  As  the 
j:;oison  of  tobacco  acts  but  for  a  short  time,  I  at  length 
awoke  from  insensibility,  and  Jooked  round  on  the  par- 
ty, my  eyes  dazzled  by  the  candles  which  had  been 
lighted  in  the  interim.  By  way  of  relieving  my  embar- 
rassment, one  of  the  gentlemen  began  the  conversation, 
with  ''  Have  you  seen  a  paper  to  day,  Mr.  Coleridge  ?^^ 
Sir  I  ^'I  replied  rubbing  my  eyes,)  "  I  am  far  from  con- 
vinced, that  a  christian  is  permitted  to  read  either  news- 
papers or  any  other  works  of  merely,  political  and  tem- 
porary interest.  This  remark,  so  ludicrously  inapposite 
to,  or,  rather,  incongruous  with,  the  purpose  for  which  I 
was  known  to  have  visited  Birmingha  .»,  and  to  assist  me 
in  which  they  were  all  then  met,  produced  an  involunla- 


110 

ry  and  general  burst  of  laughter  ;  and  seldom,  indeed, 
Lave  I  passed  so  many  delightful  hours,  as  1  enjoyed  in 
that  room  from  the  moment  of  that  laugh  to  an  early  hour 
the  next  morning.  Never,  perhaps,  in  so  mixed  and  nu- 
merous a  party,  have  I  since  heard  conversation  sustained 
with  such  animation,  enriched  with  such  variety  of  in- 
formation, and  enlivened  with  such  a  flow  of  anecdote. 
Both  then  and  afterwards,  they  all  joined  in  dissuading 
me  from  proceeding  with  my  scheme  ;  assured  me,  in  the 
most  friendly,  and  yet  most  flattering  expressions,  that 
the  employment  was  neither  fit  for  me,  nor  1  fit  for  the 
employment.  Yet  if  I  had  determined  on  persevering  in 
it,  they  promised  to  exert  themselves  to  the  utmost  to 
procure  subscribers,  and  insisted  that  I  should  make  no 
more  applications  in  person,  but  carry  on  the  canvass  by 
proxy.  1  he  same  hospitable  reception,  the  same  dissua- 
sion, and,  (that  failing,)  the  same  kind  exertions  in  my 
behalf,  I  met  with  at  Manchester,  Derby,  Nottingham, 
Sheffield,  indeed,  at  every  place  in  which  I  took  up  my 
sojourn  I  often  recall  with  affectionate  pleasure  the  ma- 
ny respectable  n>en  who  interested  themselves  for  me,  a 
perfect  stranger  to  them,  not  a  few  of  whom  I  can  still 
name  among  my  friends  They  will  bear  witness  forme, 
how  opposite  even  then  mj  principles  were  to  those  of 
jacobinism  or  even  of  democracy,  and  can  attest  the 
strict  accuracy  of  the  statement  which  1  have  left  on  re- 
cord in  the  i  0th  and  llth  numbers  of  The  Friend. 

From  this  rememberable  tour  I  returned  with  nearly 
a  thousand  names  on  the  subscriptign  list  of  the  Watch- 
man ;  yet  more  than  half  convinced,  that  prudence  dic- 
tated the  abandonment  of  the  scheme.  But  for  this  very 
reason  I  persevered  in  it ;  for  1  was  at  that  period  of  my 
life  so  completeh  hag-ridden  by  the  fear  of  being  influ- 
enced by  selfish  motives,  that  to  know  a  mode  of  conduct 
to  be  the  dictate  of  prudence^  was  a  sort  of  presumptive 
proof  to  my  feelings,  that  the  contrary  was  the  dictate 
©f  duty.  Accordingly,  I  commenced  the  work,  which 
was  announced  in  London  by  long  bills,  in  letters  larger 
than  had  ever  been  seen  before,  and  which  (I  have  been 
informed,  for  I  did  not  see  them  myself)  eclipsed  the 
glories  even  of  the  lottery  puffs.  But,  alas!  the  publi- 
cation of  the  very  first  number  w-as  delayed  beyond  the 
day  anuQunced  for  its  appearance.     In  the  second  num- 


Ill 

ber  an  essay  against  fast  days,  with  a  most  censurable  ap- 
plication of  a  text  from  Isaiah  for  its  motto,  lost  me  near 
live  hundred  of  my  subscribers  at  one  blow.  In  the 
two  following  numbers  I  made  enemies  of  all  my  Jacobin 
and  Democratic  patrons  ;  for  disgusted  by  their  infideli- 
ty, and  their  adoption  of  French  morals  with  French 
philosophy  ;  and  perhaps  thinking,  that  charity  ought  to 
begin  nearest  home  ;  instead  of  abusing  the  Government 
and  the  Aristocrats  chiefly  or  entirely,  as  had  been  ex- 
pected of  me,  I  levelled  my  attacks  at  ^'modern  patri- 
otism,'^ and  even  ventured  to  declare  my  behef,  that 
whatever  the  motives  of  ministers  might  have  been  for 
the  sedition  (or  as  it  was  then  the  fashion  to  call  them, 
the  gagging)  bills,  yet  the  bills  themselves  would  pro- 
duce an  effect  to  be  desired  by  all  the  true  friends  of 
freedom,  as  far  as  they  should  contribute  to  deter  men 
from  openly  declaiming  on  subjects,  the  principles  of 
which  they  had  never  bottomed,  and  from  ''  pleading  to 
the  poor  and  ignorant,  instead  of  pleading  Jfor  them.'* 
At  tho  same  time  I  avowed  my  conviction,  that  national 
education,  and  a  concurring  spread  of  the  gospel,  were 
the  indispensable  condition  of  any  true  political  amelio- 
ration. Thus,  by  the  time  the  seventh  number  was  pub- 
lished, I  had  the  mortification  (but  why  should  1  say 
this,  when,  in  truth,  1  cared  too  little  for  any  thing  that 
concerned  my  worldly  interests  to  be  at  all  mortified 
about  it  ?)  of  seeing  the  preceding  numbers  exposed  in 
sundry  old  iron  shops  for  a  penny  a  piece.  At  the  ninth 
number  I  dropt  the  work.  But  from  the  London  pub- 
lisher 1  could  not  obtain  a  shilling  ;  he  was  a  — and 

set  me  at  defiance.  From  other  places  I  procured  but 
little,  and  after  such  delays  as  rendered  that  little  worth 
nothing  :  and  I  should  have  been  inevitably  thrown  into 
jail  by  my  Bristol  printer,  who  refused  to  wait  even  for  a 
month  for  a  sum  between  eighty  and  ninety  pounds,  if  the 
money  had  not  been  paid  for  me  by  a  man  by  no  means 
affluent,  a  dear  friend  who  attached  himself  to  me  from  my 
first  arrival  at  Bristol,  who  has  continued  my  friend  with 
a  fidelity  unconquered  by  time  or  even  by  my  own  appa- 
rent neglect ;  a  friend  from  whom  I  never  received  an 
advice  that  was  not  wise,  or  a  remonstrance  that  was  not 
gentle  and  affectionate. 


112 

Conscientiously  an  opponent  of  the  first  reTolutionary 
war,  yet  vvitli  my  eyes  thoroughly  opened  to  the  true 
character  and  impotence  of  the  favourers  of  revolutionary 
principles  in  England,  principles  which  I  held  in  abhor- 
rence (for  it  was  part  of  my  political  creed,  that  whoever 
ceased  to  act  as  an  individual  by  making  himself  a  mem- 
ber of  any  society  not  sanctioned  by  his  government,  for- 
feited the  rights  of  a  citizen) — a  vehement  anti-ministe- 
rialist, but  after  the  invasion  of  Switzerland  a  more 
vehement  anti-gallican,  and  still  more  intensely  an  anti- 
jacobin,  I  retired  to  a  cottage  at  Stowey,  and  provided 
for  my  scanty  maintenance  by  writino-  verses  for  a  Lon- 
don Morning  Paper.  1  saw  pLiinly,  that  literature  was 
not  a  profession  by  which  1  could  expect  to  live  ;  for  I 
could  not  disguise  from  myself,  that  whatever  my  talents 
might  or  might  not  be  in  other  respects,  yet  they  w^ere 
not  of  the  sort  that  could  enable  me  to  become  a  popu- 
lar writer  ;  and  that  whatever  my  opinions  might  be  in 
themselves,  they  w^ere  almost  equi-distant  from  all  the 
three  prominent  pnrties,  the  Pittites,  the  Foxites,  and 
the  Democrats.  Of  the  unsaleable  nature  of  my  writings 
I  had  an  amusing  memento  one  morning  from  our  own 
servant  girl.  For  happening  to  rise  at  an  earlier  hour 
than  usual,  I  observed  her  putting  an  extravagant  quan- 
tity of  paper  into  the  grate  in  order  to  light  the  fire,  and 
mildly  checked  her  for  her  wastefulness  ;  la.  Sir  !  (re- 
plied poor  Nanny)  why,  it  is  only  "^  Watchmen." 

I  now  devoted  myself  to  poetry  and  to  the  study  of 
ethics  and  psychology  ;  and  so  profound  was  my  admira- 
tion at  this  time  of  Hartley's  Essays  on  Man,  that  1  gave 
his  name  to  my  first  born.  In  addition  to  the  gentle- 
man, my  neighbour,  whose  garden  joined  on  to  my  little 
orchard,  and  the  cultivation  of  whose  friendship  had 
been  my  sole  motive  in  choosing  Stowey  for  my  resi- 
dence, \  was  so  fortunate  as  to  acquire,  shortly  after  my 
settlement  tbere,  an  invaluable  blessing  in  the  society 
and  neighbourhood  of  one,  to  whom  I  could  look  up 
with  equal  reverence,  whether  1  regarded  him  as  a  poet, 
a  philosopher,  or  a  man.  His  conversation  extended 
to  almost  all  subjects,  except  physics  and  pohtics  ;  with 
the  latter  he  never  troubled  himself  Yet  neither  my 
retirement  nor  my  utter  abstraction  from  all  the  disputes 
of  the  day  could  secure  me  in  those  jealous  times  from 


113 

suspicion  and  obloquy,  ivhich  did  not  stop  at  me,  but  ex- 
tended to  my  excellent  friend,  whose  perfect  innocence 
was  even  adduced  as  a  proof  of  his  guilt.  One  of  the 
many  busy  sycophants^  of  that  day  (1  here  use  the  word 
sycophant  in  its  original  sense,  ^s  a  wretch  who  flatters 
the  prevaihng  party  by  informing  against  his  neighbours, 
under  pretence  that  they  are  exporters  of  prohibited 
Jigs  or  fancies  !  for  the  moral  apphcation  of  the  term  it 
matters  not  which) — one  of  these  sycophantic  law-mon- 
grels, discoursing  on  the  politics  of  the  neighbourhood, 
uttered  the  following  deep  remark  :  *'  As  to  Coleridge, 
there  is  not  so  much  harm  in  hiniy  for  he  is  a  whirl- 
brain  that  talks  whatever  comes    uppermost  ;  but  that 

I    he  is  the  dark  traitor.      You  never  heard  him 

^ay  a  syllable  on  the  subject. ^^ 

Now  that  the  hand  of  Providence  has  disciplined  all 
Europe  into  sobriety,  as  men  tame  wild  elephants,  by 
alternate  blows  and  caresses  ;  now  that  Englishmen  of  all 
classes  are  restored  to  their  old  English  notions  and  feel- 
ings, it  will  with  difficulty  be  credited,  how  great  an  in- 
fluence was  at  that  time  possessed  and  exerted  by  the 
spirit  of  secret  defamation,  (the  too  constant  attendant  on 
party  zeal  1)  during  the  restless  interim  from  1793  to  the 
commencement  of  the  Addington  administration,  or  the 
year  before  the  truce  of  Amiens.  For  by  the  latter  period 
the  minds  of  the  partizans,  exhausted  by  excess  of  stimu- 
lation, and  humbled  by  mutual  disappointment,  had  become 
languid.  The  same  causes  that  inclined  the  nation  to 
peace,  disposed  the  individuals  to  reconciliation.  Both 
parties  had  found  themselves  in  the  wrong.  The  one 
had  confessedly  mistaken  the  moral  character  of  the 
revolution,  and  the  other  had  miscalculated  both  its  moral 
and  its  physical  resources.  The  experiment  was  made 
at  the  price  of  great,  almost  we  m^y  say,  of  humiliating 
sacrifices  ;  and  wise  men  foresaw  that  it  would  fail,  at 
least  in  its  direct  and  ostensihle  object.  Yet  it  w^as  pur- 
cba?<tfl  cheaply,  and  realized  an  object  of  equal  value, 
and,  if  possible,  of  still  more  vital  importance.  For  it 
brouirht  about  a  national  unanimity,  unexampled  in  our 
history  since  the  reign  of  Ehzabeth  ;    and  Providence, 

*  SuKSt  (pGivtiv,  to  show  or  detect  figs,  the  exportation  of  whic^,  from 
Attica,  W8S  forbidden  by  the  laws. 

Vol.  I.  10 


Ill 

never  wantin;^  to  a  good  work  when  men  liave  done  their 
parts,  soon  provided  a»  common  focus  in  the  cause  of 
Spain,  which  made  us  all  once  more  Englishmen,  by  at 
once  gratifying  and  correcting  the  predilections  of  both 
parties.  The  sincere  reverers  of  the  throne  felt  the 
cause  of  loyalty  ennobled  by  its  alliance  with  that  of  free- 
dom ;  while  the  honest  zealots  of  the  people  could  nor 
but  admit,  that  freedom  itself  assumed  a  more  winning 
form,  humanized  by  loyalty,  and  consecrated  by  religious 
principle.  The  youthful  enthusiasts,  who,  flattered  by 
the  morning  rainbow  of  the  French  revolution,  had  made 
a  boast  of  expatriating  their  hopes  and  fears,  now  disci- 
plined by  the  succeeding  storms,  and  sobered  by  increase 
of  years,  had  been  taught  to  prize  and  honour  the  spirit  of 
nationality  as  the  best  safeguard  of  national  independence, 
and  this  again  as  the  absolute  prerequisite  and  necessary 
basis  of  popular  rights. 

If  in  Spain  too  disappointment  has  nipt  our  too  forward 
expectations,  yet  all  is  not  destroyed  that  is  checked. 
The  crop  was  perhaps  springing  up  too  rank  in  the  stalk 
to  kern  well  ;  and  there  were,  doubtless,  symptoms  of  the 
Gallican  blight  on  it.  If  superstition  and  despotism  have 
been  suifered  to  let  in  their  wolvish  sheep  to  trample 
and  eat  it  down  even  to  the  surface,  yet  the  roots  remain 
alive,  and  the  second  growth  may  prove  all  the  stronger 
and  healthier  for  the  temporary  interruption.  At  all 
events,  to  vs  heaven  has  been  just  and  gracious.  The 
people  of  England  did  their  best,  and  have  received  their 
rewards.  Long  may  we  continue  to  deserve  it !  Causes, 
which  it  had  been  too  generally  the  habit  of  former  states- 
men to  regard  as  belonging  to  another  world,  are  now 
admitted,  by  all  ranks,  to  have  been  the  main  agents  of 
our  success.  '*  IVe  fought  from  heaven  ;  the  stars  in  their 
courses  fought  against  Sisera^  If  then  unanimity,  ground- 
ed on  "moral  feelings,  has  been  among  the  least  equivo- 
cal sources  of  our  natianal  glory,  that  man  deserves  the 
esteem  of  his  countrymen,  even  as  patriots,  who  devotes 
his  life  and  the  utmost  efforts  of  his  intellect  to  the  pre- 
servation and  continuance  of  that  unanimity  by  the  dis- 
closure and  establishmeut  of  principles.  For  by  these  all 
opinions  must  be  ultimately  tried  ;  and  (as  the  feelings 
of  men  are  worthy  of  regard  only  as  far  as  they  are  the 
j-epresentatives  of  their  fixed  opinions)  on  the  knowledge 


I 


115 

of  these,  all  unanimity,  not  accidental  and  fleeting,  must 
be  grounded.  Let  the  scholar  who  doubts  this  assertion, 
refer  only  to  the  speeches  and  writings  of  Edmund  Burke, 
at  the  commencement  of  the  American  war,  and  compare 
them  with  his  speeches  and  writings  at  the  commence- 
ment of  the  French  revolution.  He  w^ill  find  the  princi^ 
pies  exactly  the  same,  and  the  deductions  the  same  ;  but  the 
practical  inferences  almost  opposite,  in  the  one  case  from 
those  drawn  in  the  other  ;  yet  in  both  equally  legitimate, 
and  in  both  equally  confirmed  by  the  results.  Whence 
gained  he  this  superiority  of  foresight  ?  Whence  arose 
the  striking  diff^erence^  and,  in  most  instances,  even  the  dis- 
crepancy between  the  grounds  assigned  by  him^  and  by 
those  who  voted  tL'z7/t.him,  on  the  same  questions  ?  How 
are  we  to  explain  the  notorious  fact,  that  the  Speeches 
and  writings  of  Edmund  Burke  are  more  interesting  at 
the  present  day  than  they  were  found  at  the  time  of  their 
first  publication  ;  while  those  of  his  illustrious^  confede- 
rates are  either  forgotten,  or  exist  only  to  furnish  proofs 
that  the  same  conclusion  which  one  man  had  deduced 
scientifically,  may  be  brought  out  by  another,  in  conse- 
quence of  errors  that  luckily  chanced  to  neutralize  each 
other  ?  It  would  be  unhandsome  as  a  conjecture,  even 
were  it  not,  as  it  actually  is,  fidse  in  point  of  fact,  to 
attribute  this  difference  to  deficiency  of  talent  on  the  part 
of  Burke's  friends,  or  of  experience,  or  of  historical 
knowledge.  The  satisfactory  solution  is,  that  Edmund 
Burke  possessed,  and  had  seduously  sharpened,  that  eye 
which  sees  all  things,  actions,  and  events,  in  relation  \a 
i\\Q.  lazi's  that  determine  their  existence,  and  circumscribe 
their  possibility.  He  referred  habitually  to  principles.. 
He  was  a  scienii/ic  statesman  ;  and,  therefore,  a  seer.  Fov 
every  principle  contains,  in  itself,  the  germs  of  a  prophe- 
cy ;  and  as  the  prophetic  povv^eris  the  essential-pi ivilege 
of  science,  so  the  fulfilment  of  its  oracles  supplies  the 
outward  and  (to  men  in  general)  the  ojily  test  of  its  clain^ 
to  the  title.  W^earisome  as  Burke's  refinements  appeared 
to  his  parliamentary  auditors,  yet  the  cultivated  classe«> 
throughout  Europe  have  reason  to  be  thankful,  that 


-  ho  went  on  refining 


And  thcu^dit  of  convincing-,  while  they  thought  of  dininj;. 


116 

Our  very  sign  boards  (snid  an  illustrious  friend  to  me^ 
give  evidence  that  there  has  been  a  Titian  in  the  world. 
In  like  manner,  not  only  the  debates  in  parliament ;  not 
only  our  proclamations  and  state  papers,  but  the  essays 
and  leading  paragraphs  of  our  journals  arc  so  many  re- 
niernbrancers  of  Edmlnd  Burke.  Of  this  the  reader  may 
easily  convince  himself,  if  either  by  recollection  or  refer- 
ence he  will  compare  the  opposition  newspapers  at  the 
commencement  and  during  the  five  or  six  following  years 
of  the  French  revolution,  with  the  sentiments,  and 
grounds  of  argument  assumed  in  the  same  class  of  Jour- 
iiajs  at  present,  and  for  some  3^ears  past. 

Whether  the  spirit  of  jacobinism,  which  the  writings 
of  Burke  exorcised  from  the  higher  and  from  the  literary 
classes,  may  not,  like  the  ghost  in  TIamlet,  be  heard  mo- 
ving and  mining  in  the  underground  chambers  with  an  ac- 
tivity the  more  dangerous  because  less  noisy,  may  admit  of 
a  question.  I  have  given  my  opinions  on  this  point,  and 
the  grounds  of  them,  in  my  letters  to  Judge  Fletcher, 
occasioned  by  his  charge  to  the  Wexford  grand  jury, 
and  published  in  the  Courier,  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  evil 
spirit  of  jealousy,  and  w^ith  it  the  cerberean  whelps  of 
feud  and  slander  no  longer  walk  their  rounds  in  culti- 
vated society. 

Far  different  were  the  days  to  which  these  anecdotes 
have  carried  me  back.  The  dark  guesses  of  some  zeal- 
ous quidnunc  met  with  so  congenial  a  soil  in  the  grave 
alarm  of  a  titled  Dogberry  of  our  neighbourhood,  that  a 
SPY  was  actually  sent  down  from  the  government  pour 
surveillance  of  myself  and  friend.  There  must  have  been 
not  only  abundance,  but  variety  of  these  *'  honorable 
men,"  at  the  disposal  of  Ministers  :  for  this  proved  a 
very  honest  fellow.  After  three  week's  truly  Indian 
perseverance  in  tracking  us,  (for  we  were  commonly  to- 
irether)  during  all  which  time  seldom  w^ere  we  out  of 
doors,  but  he  contrived  to  be  within  hearing  (and  all  the 
time  utterly  unsuspected  :  how  indeed  could  such  a  sus- 
picion enter  our  fancies  ?)  he  not  only  rejected  Sir  Dog- 
bei  ry's  request  that  he  would  try  yet  a  little  longer,  but 
declared  to  him  his  behef,  that  both  my  friend  and  myself 
were  as  good  subjects,  for  aught  he  could  discover  to 
the  contrary,  as  any  in  His  Majesty's  dominions.  He  had 
repeatedly  hid  himself,  he  said,  for  hours  together,  behi^nd 


117 

a  bank  at  the  sea-side,  (our  favourite  seat)  and'overheard 
our  conversation.  At  first  he  fancied  that  we  were  aware 
of  our  danger  ;  for  he  often  heard  me  talk  of  one  Spy 
Nozij^  which  he  was  inchned  to  interpret  of  himself,  and 
of  a  remarkable  feature  belonging  to  him  ;  but  he  wa^ 
speedily  convinced  that  it  was  a  man  who  had  made  a 
book,  and  lived  long  ago.  Our  talk  ran  most  upon  books^ 
and  we  were  perpetually  desiring  each  other  to  look  at 
this  and  to  listen  to  that ;  but  he  could  not  catch  a  word 
about  politics.  Once  he  had  joined  me  on  the  road  ;  (this 
occurred,  as  1  was  returning  home  alone  from  my  friend's 
house,  which  was  about  three  miles  from  my  own  cottage) 
and  passing  himself  oil  as  a  traveller,  he  had  entered  into 
conversation  with  me,  and  talked,  of  purpose,  in  a  demo- 
crat way  in  order  to  draw  me  out.  The  result,  it  ap- 
pears, not  only  convinced  him  that  I  was  no  friend  of  ja- 
cobinism ;  but  (he  added)  I  had  "  plainly  made  it  out  to 
be  such  a  silly  as  well  as  wicked  thing,  that  he  felt  asham- 
ed, though  he  had  only  pw^  it  07i.^^  I  distinctly  remem- 
bered the  occurrence,  and  had  mentioned  it  immediatel}'' 
on  my  return,  repeating  what  the  traveller,  with  his  Bar- 
dolph  nose  had  said,  with  my  own  answer  ;  and  so  little 
did  I  suspect  the  true  object  of  my  "tempter  ere  accuser, "" 
that  I  expressed,  with  no  small  pleasure,  my  hope  and  he- 
lief  that  the  conversation  had  been  of  some  service  to 
the  poor  misled  malcontent.  This  incident,  therefore, 
prevented  all  doubt  as  to  the  truth  of  the  report, 
which,  through  a  friendly  medium,  came  to  me  from 
the  master  of  the  village  inn,  who  had  been  ordered  to^ 
entertain  the  government  gentleman  in  his  best  manner, 
but,  above  all,  to  be  silent  concerning  such  a  person  being  " 
in  bis  house.  At  length  he  received  Sir  Dogberry's  com- 
mands to  accompany  his  guest  at  the  final  interview  ;  and 
after  the  absolving  suffrage  of  the  gentleman  ho7ioiired  with 
the  confidence  of  ministers^  answered,  as  follows,  to  the 
following  queries  ?  D.  Well,  landlord  !  and  what  do  you 
know  of  the  person  in  question  ?  L.  1  see  him  often  pass 

by  with  maislcr ,  my  landlord,  (z.  e   the  owner  of 

the  house,)  and  sometimes  with  the  new-comers  at  Hol- 
ford  ;  but  1  never  said  a  word  to  him,  or  he  to  me.  D. 
But  do  you  not  know,  that  he  has  distributed  papers  and 
band-bills  of  a  seditious  nature  among  the  common  peo- 
ple I  L.  No,  your  honour!  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thmg. 


118 

£).  Hare  you  not  seen  this  Mr.  Coleridge,  or  heard  of  hFs 
haranguing  and  talking  to  knots,  and  clusters  of  the  in- 
habitants ? — What  are  you  grinning  at,  Sir  ?  L.  Beg  your 
honour's  pardon  !  but  I  was  only  thinking,  how  they'd 
have  stared  at  him.  !f  what  [  have  heard  be  true,  your 
honour!  they  would  not  have  understood  a  word  he  said. 
"U'hen  our  vicar  was  here,  Dr.  L.,the  master  of  the  great 
school,  and  canon  of  Windsor,  there  was  a  great  dinner 

party  at   maister 's  ;  and  one  of  the  farmers^ 

that  was  there,  told  us  that  he  and  the  doctor  talked  real 
Hebrew  Greek  at  each  other  for  an  hour  together  after 
dinner  D  Answer  the  question.  Sir!  Does  he  ever  ha- 
rangue the  people  ?  L.  1  hope  your  honour  an't  angry 
with  me.  I  can  say  no  more  than  I  know.  I  never  saw 
him  talking  wiih  any  one  but  my  landlord,  and  our  cu* 
rate,  and  the  strange  gentleman.  D.  Has  he  not  been 
seen  wandering  on  the  hills  towards  the  channel,  and 
along  the  shore,»with  books  and  papers  in  his  hand,  taking 
charts  and  maps  of  the  country  ?  L.  Why,  as  to  that,  your 
honour!  I  own,  I  have  heard  ;  I  am  sure,  I  would  not 
Tvish  to  say  ill' of  any  body  ;  but  it  is  certain,  that  I  have 
lieard — D  Speak  out,  man  !  don't  be  afraid,  you  are  doing; 
your  duty  to  your  king  and  goveriHnent.  What  have  you, 
heard  ?  L.  Why,  .^olks  do  say,  your  honour !  as  how  that 
lie  is  a  poet,  and  that  he  is  going  to  put  Quantock  and  all 
about  here  in  print  ;  and  as  they  be  so  much  together,  I 
suppose  that  the  strange  gentleman  has  some  consarn  in 
the  business.  So  ended  this  formidable  inquisition,  the 
latter  part  of  which  alone  require?  explanation,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  entitles  the  anecdote  to  a  place  in  my  literary 
Jiie.  I  had  considered  it  as  a  defect  in  the  admirable 
poem  of  the  Task,  that  the  subject,  which  gives  the  tftle 
to  the  work,  was  not,  and  indeed  could  not  be,  carried  on 
beyond  the  three  or  four  first  pages,  and  that  throughout 
the  poem  the  connexions  are  frequently  aukward,  and  the 
transitions  abrupt  and  arbitrary  i  sought  for  a  subject 
that  should  give  equal  room  and  freedom  for  description^ 
incident,  and  impassioned  reflections  on  men,  nature,  and 
society,  yet  supply,  in  itself,  a  natural  connexion  to  the 
parts,  and  unity  to  the  whole  Such  a  subject  I  co-  ceiv- 
ed  myself  to  have  found  in  a  stream,  traced  from  its  source 
in  the  hills  among  the  yellow-red  moss  and  conical  glnss- 
?haped  tufts  of  Bt'Ut,  to  the  first  break  or  fall,  where   it^- 


119 

if 

drops  became  audible,  and  it  begins  to  form  a  channel ; 
thence  to  the  peat  and  turf  barn,  itself  built  of  the  same 
dark  squares  as  it  sheltered  ;  to  the  sheep-fold,  to  the 
first  cultivated  plot  of  ground,  to  the  lo^lely  cottage  and 
its  bleak  garden  won  from  the  heath  :  to  the  hamlet,  the 
villages,  the  market-town,  the  manufactories,  and  the  sea- 
port. My  walks,  therefore,  were  almost  daily  on  the 
top  of  Quantock,  and  among  its  sloping  coouibs.  With 
my  pencil  and  memorandum  book  in  my  hand,  1  was 
making  studies^  as  the  artists  call  them,  and  often  mould- 
ing my  thoughts  into  verse,  with  the  objects  and  imagery 
immediately  before  my  senses.  Many  circumstances, 
evil  and  good,  intervened  to  prevent  the  couipietion  of 
the  poem,  which  was  to  have  been  entitled  ''TheBrook.'^ 
Had  I  finished  the  work,  it  was  my  purpose,  in  the  heat 
of  the  moment,  to  have  dedicated  it  to  our  then  conimit- 
tee  of  public  safety,  as  containing  the  charts  and  maps, 
with  ^vhich  I  was  to  have  supplied  the  French  govern- 
ment in  aid  of  their  plans  of  invasion.  And  these,  too, 
for  a  tract  of  coast  that  from  i  levedon  to  Minehead 
scarcely  permits  the  approach  of  a  fishing  boat  ! 

All  my  experience,  from  my  first  entrance  into  life  to 
the  present  hour,  is  in  favour  of  the  warning  maxim,  that 
the  man  who  opposes  in  toto  the  political  or  religious 
zealots  of  his  age,  is  safer  from  their  obloquy,  than  he  who 
differs  from  them  in  one  or  two  points,  or,  perhaps,  only 
in  degree  By  that  transfer  of  the  feelings  of  private 
life- into  the  discussion  of  public  questions,  which  is  the 
queen  bee  in  the  hive  of  party  fanaticism,  the  partizan  has 
more  sympathy  with  an  intemperate  opposite  than  with  a 
moderate  friend.  We  new  enjoy  an  intermission,  and 
long  may  it  continue  !  In  addiHon  to  far  higher  and  more 
important  merits,  our  present  bible  societies,  and  clher 
numerous  associations  for  national  or  charitable  objects, 
may  serve  perhaps  lo  carry  off  the  superfluous  activity, 
and  fervour  oi  stirring  minds  in  innocent  hyperboles  and 
the  bustle  of  management.  But  the  poison-tree  is  not 
dead,  though  the  sap  may,  for  a  season,  have  subsided  to 
its  roots  At  least,  let  us  not  be  lulled  into  such  a  notion 
of  our  entire  security,  as  not  to  keepvvatch  and  ward,, 
even  on  our  best  feelings.  I  have  seen  gross  intolerance 
shown  in  support  of  toleration  ;  sectarian  antipathy  most 
oblruaively  displayed  iu  the  promotion  of  an   undistiR- 


120 

guishiiig  comprehension  of  sects  ;  and  acts  of  cruelty,  (I 
had  almost  said  of  treachery,)  committed  in  furtherance 
of  an  object  vitally  important  to  the  cause  of  humanity; 
^nd  all  this  by  men,  too,  of  naturally  kind  disposHions 
and  exemplary  conduct. 

The  magic  rod  of  fanaticism  is  preserved  in  the  very 
adyta  of  human  nature  ;  and  needs  only  the  re-exciting 
warmth  of  a  master  hand  to  bud  forth  afresh,  and  pro- 
duce the  old  fruits.  The  horror  of  the  peasant's  war  in 
Germany,  and  the  direful  effects  of  the  Anabaptist's  ten- 
ets (which  differed  only  from  those  of  jacobinism  by  the 
substitution  of  theological  for  philosophical  jargon)  struck 
all  Europe  for  a  time  with  affright.  Yet  little  more  than 
a  century  was  sufficient  to  obliterate  all  effective  memo- 
ry of  these  events.  The  same  principles,  with  similar, 
though  less  dreadful  consequences,  were  again  at  work^ 
from  the  imprisonment  of  the  first  Charles  to  the  resto- 
ration of  his  son.  The  flmatic  maxim  of  extirpating  fa- 
naticism by  persecution  produced  a  civil  war.  The  war 
ended  in  the  victor}^  of  the  insurgents  ;  but  the  temper 
survived,  and  Milton  had  abundant  grounds  for  asserting^ 
that  "  Presbyter  was  but  Old  Prifst  writ  large  !"  One 
good  result,  thank  heaven!  of  this  zealotry  was  the  re- 
establishment  of  the  church.  And  now  it  might  have 
been  hoped,  that  the  mischievous  spirit  would  have  been 
bound  for  a  season,  "  and  a  seal  set  upon  him  that  he 
might  deceive  the  nation  no  more."  But  no  !  The  ball 
of  persecution  was  taken  up  with  undiminished  vigour  by 
the  persecuted.  The  same  fanatic  principle,  that  under 
the  solemn  oath  and  covenant  had  turned  cathedrals  into 
stables,  destroyed  the  rarest  trophies  of  art  and  ancestral 
piety,  and  hunted  the  brightest  ornaments  of  learning  and 
religion  into  holes  and  corners,  now  marched  under  epis- 
copal banners  :  and  having  first  crowded  the  prisons  of 
England,  emptied  its  whole  vial  of  wrath  on  the  misera- 
ble covenanters  of  Scotland.  (Laing^s  Histor}^  of  Scot- 
land.— Walter  Scott^s  Bard's  Ballads,  Lc)  A  merciful  pro- 
vidence at  length  constrained  both  parties  to  join  against 
a  common  enemy.  A  wise  government  followed  ;  and 
the  established  church  became,  and  now  is,  not  only  the 
brightest  example,  but  our  best  and  only  sure  bulwark, 
of  toleration  !  The  true  and  indispensable  bank  against  a 
r,€w  inundation  of  persecuting  zeal — Esto  perpetua  ! 


121 

A  lon^  interval  of  quiet  succeeded  ;  or,  ratlier,  the  ex- 
haustion had  produced  a  cold  tit  of  the  ague,  which  was 
sjnitoiDatized  by  indiilerence  among  the  many,  and  a 
tendency  to  infidelity  or  scepticism  in  the  educated 
classes.  At  length  those  feelings  of  disgust  and  hatred, 
which,  for  a  brief  while,  the  multitude  had  attached  to 
the  crimes  and  absurdities  of  sectarian  and  democra- 
tic fanaticism,  were  transferred  to  the  oppressive  privi- 
leges of  the  noblesse,  and  the  luxury,  intrigues,  and  fa- 
voritism of  the  continental  courts.  The  same  principleSp 
dressed  in  the  ostentatious  garb  of  a  fasliionable  philoso- 
phy, once  more  rose  triumphant,  and  ellected  the  French 
revolution.  And  have  we  not,  within  tiie  last  three  or 
four  years,  had  reason  to  apprehend,  that  the  detestable 
maxims  and  correspondent  measures  of  the  late  French 
despotism  had  already  bedimmed  the  public  recollections 
of  democratic  phrenzy  ;  had  drawn  off,  to  other  objects, 
the  electric  force  of  the  feelings  which  had  massed  and 
upheld  those  recollections  ;  and  that  a  favourable  con- 
currence of  occasions  was  alone  wanting  to  awaken  the 
thunder,  and  precipitate  the  lightning,  from  the  opposite 
quarter   of  the   political   heaven  ?  (See    The  Friend, 

P-  I'o.)  ...  .    ■  . 

In  part  from  constitutional  indolence,  which,  in  the 
very  hey-dey  of  hope,  had  kept  my  enthusiasm  in  check, 
but  still  more  from  the  habits  and  influences  of  a  classical 
education  and  academic  pursuits,  scarcely  had  a  year  elaps- 
ed from  the  commencement  of  my  literary  and  political 
adventures  before  my  mind  sunk  into  a  state  of  thorough 
disgust  and  des{)ondency,  both  with  regard  to  the  disputes 
and  the  parties  disputant.  VV^ith  more  than  poetic  feelr. 
ing  I  exclaimed  : 

••  The  sensual  and  the  dark  rebel  in  vain, 
Slaves  by  their  own  compulsion  !     In  mad  game 
They  break  their  manacles,  to  vrcar  t)ie  name 
Of  freedom,  graven  ou  a  heavier  chain. 
O  liberty  !   with  profitless  endeavour, 
Have  I  pursued  thee  manv  a  weary  hour; 
Bat  thou  nor  swell'st  the  victor's  pomp,  nor  ever 
Didst  breathe  thy  soul  in  forms  of  human  powerl 

Alike  from  all,  howe'er  they  praise  thee 

(Nor  prayer  nor  boastful  name  delays  theo} 


122 

From  superstition's  harpy  minions 
And  factious  bJaspbemy's  obscener  slaves, 
Thou  speedest  on  thy  cherub  pinions. 
The  guide  of  homeless  winds,  and  playmate  of  the  waves! 

Fkance,  a  Palinodia. 

I  retired  to  a  cottage  in  Somersetshire  at  the  foot  of 
'  Quantock,  and  devoted  my  thoughts  and  studies  to  the 
foundations  of  religion  and  morals.  Here  I  found  my- 
self all  afloat.  Doubts  rushed  in  ;  broke  upon  me 
"-'•from  the  fountains  of  the  great  deep^^  and  fell  '^fromthe 
windows  cf  heaven, "^^  The  fontal  truths  of  natural  religion, 
and  the  books  of  Revelation,  alike  contributed  to  the 
flood  ;  and  it  was  long  ere  my  ark  touched  on  an  Ar- 
arat, an-d  rested.  The  idea  of  the  Supreme  Being  ap- 
peared to  me  to  be  as  necessarily  implied  in  all  parti- 
cular modes  of  being  as  the  idea  of  infinite  space  in  all 
the  geometrical  figures  by  which  space  is  limited  I  was 
pleased  with  the  Cartesian  opinion,  that  the  idea  of  God 
is  distinguished  from  all  other  ideas  by  involving  its 
reality ;  but  I  was  not  wholly  satisfied.  I  began  then 
to  ask  myself,  what  proof  I  had  of  the  outward  existence 
of  any  thing  ?  Of  this  sheet  of  paper,  for  instance,  as  a 
thing  in  itself,  separate  from  the  phosnomenon  or  image  in 
my  perception.  I  saw,  that  in  the  nature  of  things 
such  proof  is  impossible  ;  and  that  of  all  modes  of  be- 
ing, that  are  not  objects  of  the  senses,  the  existence  is 
assumed  by  a  logical  necessity  arising  from  the  consti- 
tution oftiie  miiui  itself,  by  the  absence  of  all  motive  to 
doubt  it,  not  from  any  absolute  contradiction  in  the  sup- 
position of  the  contrary.  Still,  the  existence  of  a  being,  the 
ground  of  all  existence,  was  not  yet  the  existence  of  a 
moral  creator  and  governor.  ''  In  the  position,  that  all 
reality  is  either  contained  in  the  necessary  being  as  an 
attribute^  or  exists  through  him,  as  its  ground^  it  remains 
undecided  wliether  the  properties  of  intelhgence  and 
will  are  to  be  referred  to  the  Supreme  Being  in  the  for- 
mer, or  only  in  the  latter  sense  ;  as  inherent  attributes,  or 
only  as  consequences  that  have  existence  in  other  things 
through  him.  Thus,  organization  and  motion,  are  re- 
garded 2isfrom  God,  not  in  God.  Were  the  latter  the 
truth,  then,  notwithstanding  all  the  pre-eminence  which 
must  be  assigned  to  the  Eternal  First  from  the  suffi- 
ciency, unity,   and  independence   of  his  being,  as  the 


123 

dread  ground  of  the  universe,  his  nature  would  yet  fall 
fiiv  short  of  that  which  we  are  bou!ul  to  conipreheud  in 
the  idea  of  God.  For  without  any  knowledge  of  deter- 
mining resolve  of  its  own,  it  would  ordy  be  a  blind  ne- 
cesbdry  ground  of  other  things  and  other  spirits  ;  and 
thus  would  be  distinguished  from  the  fate  of  certain  an- 
cient philosophers  in  no  respect,  but  that  of  being  more 
definitely  and  intelligibly  described"  Kant's  einzig 
inoglicher  Beweisgrund  :  verinischte  Schriften,  Znveiter  Band^ 
§  102  and  103. 

For  a  very  long  time,  indeed,  I  could  not  reconcile 
personality  with  infinity  ;  and  my  head  was  with  Spino- 
za, though  my  whole  heart  remained  with  Paul  and  John. 
Yet  there  had  dawned  upon  me,  even  before  1  had  met 
with  the  Critique  of  the  Pure  Reason,  a  certain  guiding 
li2;ht.  If  the  mere  intellect  could  make  no  certain  dis- 
covery of  a  holy  and  intelligent  first  cause,  it  might  yet 
supply  a  demonstration,  that  no  legitimate  argument 
could  be  drawn  from  the  intellect  against  its  truth.  And 
what  is  this  more  than  St.  Paul's  assertion,  that  by  wis- 
dom (more  properly  translated,  by  the  powers  of  reason- 
ing) no  man  ever  arrived  at  the  knowledge  of  God  ? 
What  more  than  the  sublimest,  and,  probably,  the  oldest 
book  on  earth,  has  taught  us, 

Silver  and  gold  man  searcbeth  rrt : 

Bringeth  the  ore  out  of  the  earth,  anw  darkness  into  light* 

But  where  findeth  he  wisdom  ? 
Where  is  the  place  of  understanding? 

The  abyss  crieth  ;  it  is  not  in  ine ! 
Ocean  ecboeth  back;  not  in  me  1 

Whence  then  cometh  wisdom  ? 
Where  dwelleth  understanding  ? 

Hidden  from  the  eyes  of  the  living  : 
Kept  secret  from  the  fowls  of  heaven  ! 

Hell  and  death  answer  : 

We  have  heard  the  rumour  thereof  from  afar  I 

God  marketh  out  the  road  to  it ; 
God  knoweth  its  abiding  place! 


124 

He  beholileth  the  ends  of  the  earth  ; 

He  surveyeth  what  is  b^^neath  the  heavens  !  I 

And  as  he  weip:hed  out  the  winds,  and  measured  the  sea, 

And  appointed  laws  to  the  rain, 

And  a  path  to  t^e  thunder, 

A  path  to  the  flashes  of  the  lightningi 

Then  did  he  see  it, 

And  he  counted  it ; 

He  stjarched  into  the  depth  thereof, 

And  with  a  line  did  he  compass  it  round  ! 

But  to  man  he  said, 

The  fear  of  the  J^ord  is  wisdom  for  thee  I 

And  to  avoid  evil, 

That  is  thy  understanding. 

Job,  Chap.  28th. 

I  became  convinced,  that  religion,  as  both  the  corner- 
stone and  the  key-stone  "of  morality,  mnst  have  a  moral 
origin  ;  so  far  at  least,  that  the  evidence  of  its  doctrines 
could  not,  like  the  truths  of  abstract  science,  be  wholly  in- 
dependent of  the  will.  It  were  therefore  lo  be  expect- 
ed, that  lis  fundamental  truth  would  be  such  as  might  be 
idenied  ;  though  only,  by  the  /oo/,  and  even  by  the  fool 
from  the  madness  of  the  heart  alone  I 

The  question  then  concerning  our  faith  in  the  exist- 
ence of  a  God,  not  only  as  the  ground  of  the  univ  erse  by 
his  essence,  but  as  its  maker  and  judge  by  his  wisdom 
and  holy  will,  appeared  to  stand  thus  :  The  sciential 
reason,  whose  objects  are  purely  theoretical,  remains 
neutral,  as  long  as  its  name  and  semblance  are  not  usurp- 
ed by  the  opponents  of  the  doctrine.  But  it  then  be- 
comes an  effective  ally  by  exposing  the  false  show  of 
demonstration,  or  by  evincing  the  equal  demonstrability 
of  the  contrary  from  premises  equally  logical.  7\he  un- 
derstanding mean  time  suggests,  the  analog;,  of  experi- 
ence facilitates,  the  belief.  Natur.3  excites  i-^d  retiUs  it, 
«g  by  a  perpet  hil  revelation.  Our  feelings  almost  ne-; 
cessitate  it  ;  and  the  law  of  conscience  peremptorily 
commands  it  The  arg-nroents,  that  at  all  ap{  I3  to  it, 
are  in  its  favour  ;  and  there  is  notbinof  ag:airie^i  it,  bi-tits 
own  subhmity.     It  could  not  be  inteliectuaiiy  more  evi- 


125 

dent  without  becoming  morally  less  effective  ;  ■without 
countera'  ting  its  own  end,  by  s.^criiicing  the  life  of  faith 
to  the  cold  mechanism  of  ;i  worthless,  because  compulso- 
ry assent.  The  belief  of  a  God  and  a  future  state  (if  a 
passive  acquiescence  may  be  flattered  with  the  name  of 
belief)  does  not  indeed  always  beget  a  good  heart  ;  but 
a  good  heart  so  naturally  begets  the  belief,  that  the  very 
^Qw  exceptions  must  be  regarded  as  strange  anomalies 
from  strange  and  unfortunate  circumstances. 

From  these  premises  I  proceeded  to  draw  the  following 
conclusions.  First,  that  having  once  fully  admitted  the 
existence  of  an  infinite  yet  self-conscious  Creator,  we  are 
not  allowed  to  ground  the  irrationality  of  any  other  arti- 
cle of  faith  on  arguments  which  would  equally  prove  that 
to  be  irrational  which  we  had  allowed  to  be  real.  Se- 
condly, that  whatever  is  deducible  from  the  admission  of 
a  self  comprehending  and  creative  spirit,  may  be  legiti- 
mately used  in  proof  of  the  possibiuty  of  any  further  mys- 
tery concerning  the  divine  nature,  Possibilitatem  myste- 
riorum,  (Trinitatis,  &c.,)  contra  insultus  Infidelium  et 
Hereticorum  a  contradictionibus  vindico  ;  baud  quidem  ve- 
ritatem^  quee  revelatione  sola  stabiliri  possit  ;  says  Leib- 
nitz, in  a  letter  to  his  Duke.  He  then  adds  the  follow- 
ing just  and  important  remark  :  *'  In  vain  will  tradition 
or  texts  of  scripture  be  adduced  in  support  of  a  doctrine, 
donee  clava  impossibilitatis  et  contradictionis  e  manibus 
horum  Herculum  extorta  fuerit.  For  the  heretic  will 
still  reply,  that  texts,  the  literal  sense  of  which  is  not  so 
much  above  as  directly  against  all  reason,  must  be  under- 
stood ^^?/rarrc)e/i/,  as  Herod  is  a  fox,  &c." 

These  principles  I  hc\d,  philosophically,  while,  in  re- 
spect of  revealed  religion,  1  remained  a  zealous  Unita- 
iian.  I  considered  the  idea  of  the  Trinity  a  fair  scho- 
lastic inference  from  the  being  of  God,  as  a  creative  in- 
telligence ;  and  that  it  was,  therefore,  entitled  to  the  rank 
of  an  esoteric  doctrine  of  natural  religion.  But  seeing  in 
the  same  no  practical  or  moral  bearing,  I  confined  it  to 
the  scl^ols  of  philosophy.  The  admission  of  the  logos, 
as  hypostasized,  (i.  e.  neither  a  mere  attribute  or  a  per- 
sonification,) in  no  respect  removed  tuy  doubts  concern- 
ing the  incarnation  and  the  redemption  by  the  cross  ; 
which  I  could  neither  reconcile  in  reason  with  the  im- 
passiveness  of  the  Divine  Being,  nor,  in  my  moral  feel- 

VoL.  L  11 


126 

^ngs,  with  the  sacred  distinction  between  thfngs  and  per- 
sons, the  vicarious  payment  of  a  debt,  and  the  vicarious 
expiation  of  guilt.  A  more  thorough  revolution  in  my 
philosophic  principles,  and  a  deeper  insight  into  my  own 
heart,  were  yet  wanting.  Nevertheless,  I  cannot  doubt, 
that  the  difference  of  my  metaphysical  notions  from  those 
of  Unitarians  in  general,  contributed  (o  my  final  re-con- 
version to  the  whole  truth  in  Christ ;  even  as,  according 
to  his  own  confession,  the  books  of  certain  Platonic  phi- 
losophers, [Ubri  quorundam  Platonicorum,)  commenced 
the  rescue  of  St.  Augustine's  faith  from  the  same  error, 
aggravated  by  the  far  darker  accompaniment  of  the  Ma- 
nicha^an  heresy. 

While  my  mind  was  thus  perplexed,  by  a  gracious  pro- 
vidence, for  which  I  can  never  be  slifficiently  grateful,  the 
generous  and  munificent  patronage  of  Mr.  Josiah,  and 
Mr.  Thomas  Wedgewood,  enabled  me  to  finish  my  edu- 
cation in  Germany.  Instead  of  troubling  others  with  my 
own  crude  notions  and  juvenile  compositions,  I  was  thence- 
forward better  employed  in  attempting  to  store  my  own 
head  with  the  wisdom  of  others.  I  made  the  best  use  of 
my  time  and  means  ;  and  there  is,  therefore,  no  period 
of  my  life  on  which  I  can  look  back  with  such  unmingled 
satisfaction.  After  acquiring  a  tolerable  sufficiency  in 
the  German  language^  at  Ratzeburg,  which,  with  my  voy- 

*  To  tho.ee  who  design  to  acquire  the  lan^iage  of  a  country  in  the 
<ountry  itself,  it  may  he  useful  if  I  mention  the  incalculable  advantage 
vvhich'I  derived  from  learning  all  the  words  that  could  possibly  be  so 
learnt,  with  the  objects  before  me,  and  without  the  inteiTnediation  of  the 
English  terms.  It'was  a  regular  part  of  my  morning  studies,  for  the  first 
six  weeks  of  my  residence  at  Ratzeburg,  to  accompany  the  good  and 
kind  old  pastor  w  ith  w^hom  I  lived,  from  the  cellar  to  the  roof,  through 
gardens,  farm  yards,  &c.,  and  to  call  every,  the  minutest,  thing  by  its  Ger- 
man name.  Advertisements,  farces,  jest  books,  and  the  conversation  of 
children  while  I  was  at  play  with  them,  contributed  their  share  to  a  more 
home-like  acquaintance  with  the  language  than  I  could  have  acquired 
from  works  of  polite  literature  alone,  or  even  from  polite  society.  There 
is  a  passage  of  hearty  sound  sense  in  Luther's  German  letter  on  interpre- 
tation, to  the  translation  of  which  I  shall  prefix,  for  the  sake  of  those  who 
read  the  German,  yet  are  not  likely  to  have  dipt  often  in  the  massive  fo- 
lios of  this  heroic  reformer,  the  simple,  sinewy,  idiomatic  words  of  the 
©riginal.  *'  Denn  man  muss  nicht  die  Buchstaben  in  der  Laftimschea 
Spr-iche  fragen  wie  man  soil  Deutsch  rcden  ;  sondern  man  muss  die  mut- 
ter im  Hause,  die  Kinder  auf  den  Gassen,  den  gemeinen  Mann  auf  dem 
Markte,  darum  fragen  :  und  denselbigen  auf  das  Maul  sehen  wie  sie  re- 
den,  und  darnach  dollmetschen.  So  verstehen  sie  es  denn,  und  merken 
dass  man  Deutsch  mit  ihnen  redet." 

Translation. 

For  one  must  not  ask  the  letters  in  the  Latin  tongue,  how^  one  ought  t9 
speak  Gennan  :  but  one  must  ask  the  mother  in  the^house,  the  children  in 
tae^lan^s  and  alleys,  the  common  man  in  the  n>arket,  concerning  this 


127 

age  and  journey  thither,  I  have  described  in  The  Friend^ 
I  proceeded  through  Hanover  to  Gottingen. 

Here  I  regularly  attended  the  lectures  on  physiology 
in  the  naorniiig,  and  on  natural  history  in  the  evening,  un- 
der Blumenbach,  a  name  as  dear  to  every  Englishman 
who  has  studied  at  that  university,  as  it  is  venerable  to 
men  of  science  throughout  Europe  !  Eichhorn's  lectures 
on  the  New  Testament  were  repeated  to  me  from  notes 
hf  a  student  from  Ratzeburg,  a  young  man  of  sound 
learning  and  indefatigable  industry  ;  who  is  now,  I  be- 
lieve, a  professor  of  the  oriental  languages  at  Heidelberg.. 
But  my  chief  efforts  were  directed  towards  a  grounded 
knowledge  of  the  German  language  and  literature.  From 
professor  Tychsen,  I  received  as  many  lessons  m  the 
Gothic  of  Ulphilas  as  sufficed  to  make  me  acquainted 
with  its  grammar,  and  the  radical  words  of  most  frequent 
occurrence  ;  and  with  the  occasional  assistance  oi  the 
bame  philosophical  linguist,  I  read  through  Ottfried's^ 

yea,  and  look  at  the  moves  of  their  mouths  while  they  are  talking,  and 
thereafter  interpret.  They  understand  you  then,  and'mark  that  one  talks 
German  with  them. 

*  This  paraphrase,  written  about  the  time  of  Charlemag^ne,  is  by  no 
means  deficient  in  occasional  passages  of  considerable  poetic  merit. 
Therr^  is  a  flow,  and  a  tender  enthusiasm  in  the  following-  lines,  (at  the 
conclusion  of  Chapter  Y.)  which  even  in  the  translation.  Mill  not,  1  flatter 
Diyself,  fail  to  interest  the  reader.  Ottfried  is  describing  the  circumstaft- 
<ies  immediately  following  the  birth  of  our  Lord. 

She  gave  with  joy  her  virgin  breast; 
She  hid  it  not,  she  bared  the  breast, 
Which  suckled  that  divinest  babe  ! 
Blessed,  blessed  were  the  breasts 
Which  the  Saviour  infant  kiss'd  ; 
And  blessed,  blessed  was  the  mother 
Who  wranp'd  his  limbs  in  swaddling  clothe?. 
Singing  placed  him  on  her  lap. 
Hung  o'er  him  with  her  looks  of  love, 
And  soothed  him  with  a  lulling  motion. 
Blessed  •'  for  she  shelter'd  him  • 

From  the  damp  and  chilling  air ; 
Blessed,  blessed  .'  for  she  lay 
With  such  a  babe  in  one  blest  becj., 
Close  as  babes  and  mothers  lie  ! 
Blessed,  blessed  evermore, 
With  her  virgin  lips  she  kiss'd, 
W'ith  her  arms,  and  to  her  breast 
She  embraced  the  babe  divine, 
Her  babe  divine  the  virgin  mother  I 
There  lives  not  on  this  ring  of  ear^ 
A  mortal,  that  can  sing  htrpraig€. 
Mighty  mother,  virgin  pure^ 


128 

iiieti  icnl  parnplirase  of  the  gospel,  and  the  most  important 
remains  of  the  Theotiscan,  or  the  transitional  state  of 
the  Teutonic  laiiguaoe  from  the  Gothic  to  the  old  German 
of  the  Swabian  period.  Of  this  period  (the  polished  dia- 
lect of  which  is  analogous  to  that  of  our  Chaucer,  and 
which  leaves  the  philosophic  student  in  doubt,  whether 
the  languac^e  has  not  since  then  lost  more  in  sweetness 
and  flexibility,  than  it  has  gained  in  condensation  and  co- 
piousness) 8  read  with  sedulous  accuracy  the  Minnesin- 
ger (or  singers  of  love,  the  provencal  poets  of  the  Swa- 
bian court)  and  the  metrical  romances  ;  and  then  labour- 
ed through  sufficient  specimens  of  the  master  singers^  their 
degenerate  successors  ;  not,  however,  without  occasional 
pleasure  from  the  rude  yet  interesting  strains  of  Haj^s 
Sachs,  the  cobler  of  Nuremberg.  Of  this  man's  genius, 
five  I'olio  volumes,  with  double  columns,  are  extant  in  print, 
and  nearly  an  equal  number  in  manuscript  ;  yet.  the  in- 
defatigable bard  takes  care  to  inform  his  readers,  that  he 
never  made  a  shoe  the  Uss^  but  had  virtuously  reared  a 
large  family  by  the  labour  of  his  hands. 

in  Pindar,  Chaucer,  Dante,  Milton,  &c.  &c  we  have 
instances  of  the  close  connexion  of  poetic  genius  with  the 
Jove  of  liberty  and  of  genuine  reformation.  Thr  moral 
sense  at  least  will  not  be  outraged,  if  I  add  to  the  list  the 
name  of  this  honest  shoemaker  (a  trade,  by  the  bye,  re- 
markable for  the  production  of  philosophers  and  poets.) 
His  poem  entitled  the  Morning  Star,  was  the  very  first 
publication  that  appeared  in  praise  and  support  of  Lu- 
ther ;  and  an  excellent  hymn  of  Hans  Sachs,  which  has 
been  deservedly  translated  into  almost  all  the  European 
janguages,  was  commonly  sung  in  the  Protestant  churches, 
whenever  the  heroic  reformer  visited  them. 

In  Luther's  own  German  writings,  and  eminently  in 
his  transittion  of  the  bible,  the  German  language  com- 
menced. I  mean  the  language,  as  it  is  at  present  writ' 
ten  ;  that  which  is  called  the  High  German,  as  contra- 
distinguished from  the   Platt-Teltsch,  the   dialect  of 

In  the  darkness  and  the  ni<^}it 
For  us  she  borttXic  heavenly  Lord  ! 

Most  intr  re  sting  is  it  to  consider  the  effect,  when  the  feelings  are 
wroiiprht  above  the  tiatural  pitch  by  the  belief  of  something  mystt-rioiis, 
while  all  the  images  are  purely  natural*  Then  it  is,  that  religion  and 
poetry  strike  deepest. 


129 

f  he  flat  or  northern  countries,  and  from  the  OeER-TEUTScif,^ 
the  language  of  the  middle  and  southern  Germany.  The 
High  German  is  indeed  a  lingua  communis  not  actually 
the  native  language  of  any  province,  but  the  choice  and 
fragrancy  of  all  the  dialects.  From  this  cause  it  is  at 
once  the  most  copious  and  the  most  grammatical  of  all  the 
European  tongues. 

Within^less  than  a  century  after  Luther's  death,  the  Ger- 
man was  inundated  with  pedantic  barbarisms.  A  few  vo- 
lumes of  this  period  1  read  through  from  motives  of  cu- 
riosity ;  for  it  is  not  easy  to  imagine  any  thing  more  fan- 
tastic, than  the  very  appearance  of  their  pages.  Almost 
every  third  word  is  a  Latin  word  with  a  Germanized  end- 
ing ;  the  Latin  portion  being  always  printed  in  Roman 
letters,  while  in  the  last  syllable  the  German  character  i^ 
retained. 

At  length,  about  the  year  1620,  Opitz  arose,  whose 
genius  more  nearly  resembled  that  of  Dryden  than  any 
other  poet,  who  at  present  occurs  to  my  recollection.  In 
the  opinion  of  Lessing,  the  most  acute  of  critics^,  and  of 
Adelung,  the  first  of  Lexicographers,  Opitz,  and  the 
Silesian  poets,  his  followers,  not  only  restored  the  lan- 
guage, but  still  remain  the  models  of  pure  diction.  A 
stranger  has  no  vote  on  such  a  question  ;  but  after  repeat- 
ed perusals  of  th€  work,  my  feelings  justified  the  verdict, 
and  I  seemed  to  have  acquirecl  from  them  a  sort  of  toct 
for  what  is  genuine  in  the  style  of  later  writers. 

Of  the  splendid  era  which  commenced  with  Gellert, 
Klopstock,  Ramler,  Lessing,  and  their  compeers,  I  need 
not  speak.  With  the  opportunities  which  I  enjoyed,  it 
would  have  been  disgraceful  not  to  have  been  familiar 
with  their  writings  ;  and  I  have  already  said  as  much  as 
the  present  biographical  sketch  requires  concerning  the 
German  philosophers,  whose  works,  for  the  greater  part, 
I  became  acquainted  with  at  a  far  later  period. 

Soon  after  my  return  from  Germany,  I  was  solicited  to 
undertake  the  literary  and  political'  department,  in  the 
3Iorning  Post  ;  and  I  acceded  to  the  proposal,  oa  the 
condition  that  the  paper  should,*  thenceforward,  be  con- 
ducted on  certain  Exed  and  announced  principles,  and  that 
I  should  be  neither  obliged  or  requested  to  deviate  front 
shem,  in  favor  of  any  party  or  any  events  In  consequence. 
that  Joumal  became.,  and  for  many  years  cantiGuedu_  (mti^ 


130 

ministerial  indeed  ;  yet,  with  a  very  qualified  approbation 
of  (he   op[iOsitioii,  and   with  far  greater  earnestness  and 
zerii,  both  anti-jacobin  and  anti-gallican.     To  this  hour,  I 
cannot  find  reason  to  approve  of  the  first  war,  either  in 
its  commencement  or  its  conduct.     Nor  can  1  understand 
with  what  reason,  either  Mr.   Percival,  (whom  I  am  sin- 
gular enough  to  regard  as  the  best  and  wisest  minister  of 
this  reign,)  or  the  present  administration,  can  be  said  to 
have  pursued  the  plans  of  Mr.  Pitt.     The  love  of  their 
country,  and  perseverant  hostility  to  French  principles 
and  French  ambition  are,  indeed,  honourable   qualities, 
common   to  them  and  to  their  predecessors.     Butitap- 
appears  to  me  as  clear  as  the  evidence  of  facts  can  ren- 
der any  question  of  history,  that  the  successes  of  the  Per- 
cival and  of  the  existing  ministry,  have   been  owing   to 
their  having  pursued  measures  the  direct  contrary  to  Mr, 
Pitt's.     Such,  for  instance,  are  the  concentration  of  the 
national    force  to  one  object  ;  the    abandonment  of  the 
subsidizing  policy,  so  far,  at  least,  as  neither  to  goad  or 
bribe  the  continental  courts  into  war,  till  the  convictions 
of  their  subjects  had  rendered  it  a  war  of  their  own  se<^k- 
ing  ;  and,  above  all,  in  their  manly  and  generous  reliance 
on   the   good  sense  of  the  English  people,  and    on  that 
loyalty  which  is  linked  to  the  very  heart^  of  the  n..tion, 
by  the  system  of  credit,  and  the  interdependence  of  pro- 
perty. 

*  Lord  Grenville  has  lately  re-asserted,  (ia  the  Hosse  of  Lords.)  the 
imminent  danger  of  a  revolution  .in  the  earlier  part  of  the  war  against 
France.  I  doub^  not  that  his  Lordship  is  sincere  ;  and  it  must  be  i^iitter- 
ina'  to  his  feelings  to  believe  it.  Bui  where  are  the  evidenc  cs  of  the  diRger, 
to'whitli  a  future  historian  can  appeal?  Or  must  he  rest  on  an  as-  rrion  ? 
Let  me  be  permitted  to  extract  a  passtige  on  the  subject  from  The  Friend. 
*t  I  have  said  that  to  withstand  the  arguments  of  the  lawless,  the  AnU  jaco- 
bins proposed  to  suspend  the  law,  and  by  the  interposition  of  a  pattcular 
statute,  to  eclipse  the  blessed  hght  of  the  universal  sun,  that  spies  .ind  in- 
jormers  might  tyrannize  and  es*  ape  in  the  ominous  darkness.  Oh  !  if  these 
icnistaken  men,  intoxicated  and  bewildered  with  the  panic  of  property, 
which  they  themselves  were  the  chief  agents  in  exciting,  had  eve^  h^.  ed  in 
a  country  where  thci-e  really  existed  a  genera!  disposition  to  change  and 
rebellion  !  Had  they  ever  travelled  through  Sicily  :  or  through  Franc  e  at 
the  first  coming  on  of  the  revolution  ;  or  even,  alas  !  through'  too  iiranv  of 
the  provinces  of  a  sister  island  ;  they  could  not  but  have  shrunk  from  tKeir 
own  declarations  concerning  the  state  of  feeling,  an  ophiion  at  that  time 
prf;dominant  throughout  Great  Britain.  There  was  a  time,  (heaven  ^  rant ! 
that  that  time  may  have  passed  by,)  when,  by  crossing  a  narrow  strait, 
they  might  have  learnt-  <he  true  'symptoms  oi  approacning  danger,  and 
have  secured  themseiv;  s  from  n-i^taking  the  meetings  and  idle  i-ant  of 
such  sedition,  as  shrunk  appalh^d  frc^ji  the  sight  of  a  constable,  for  the  dire 
murmuring  8ind  strange  consternation  whicS  precedes  the  storm  or  ear**hr- 


131 

Be  this  as  it  may,  I  am  persuaded  that  the  Morning' 
Post  proved  a  far  more  useful  ally  to  the  government  in 
its  most  important  objects,  in  consequence  of  its  being 
generally  considered  as  moderately  anti-ministerial,  than 
if  it  had  been  the  avowed  eulogist  of  Mr.  Pitt.  (The 
few,  whose  curiosity  or  fancy  should  lead  them  to  turn 
over  the  Journals  of  that  date,  may  find  a  small  proof  of 
this  in  the  frequent  charges  made  by  the  Morning  Chro- 
nicle, that  such  and  such  essays  or  leading  paragraphs  had 
been  sent  from  the  treasury.)  The  rapid  and  unusual 
increase  in  the  sale  of  the  Morning  Post,  is  a  sufficient 
pledge  that  genuine  impartiality,  with  a  respectable  por- 
tion of  literary  talent,  will  secure  the  success  of  a  news- 
paper, without  the  aid  of  party  or  ministerial  patronage. 
But  by  impartiality  I  mean  an  honest  and  enlightened 
adherence  to  a  code  of  intelligible  principles,  previously 
announced,  and  faithfully  referred  to,  in  suppart  of  every 

quake  of  national  discord.  Not  onlj  in  coffee-houses  and  public  theatres, 
but  even  at  the  tables  of  the  wealthy,  they  woii'd  have  heard  the  advocates 
of  existing-  government  defend  their  cause  in  the  language  and  with  the 
tone  of  njen.  who  are  consc  ious  that  tiiey  arc  in  a  minority.  But  in  Eng- 
land, when  the  alarm  was  at  its  highest,  there  was  not  a  city,  no,  not  a 
town  or  village,  in  which  a  man  suspected  of  holding  democratic  princi- 
ples could  move  abroad  without  receiving  some  unplesant  proof  of  the 
Hatred,  in  whic  h  his  supposed  opinions  were  held  by  tlie  great  majority  of 
the  people;  and  the  only  instances  of  popular  excess  ai'd  indignation, 
were  in  favour  of  the  government  and  tne  established  church.  But  why 
need  I  appeal  to  these  invidious  facts  ?  Turn  over  the  pages  of  history,  and 
seek  for  a  single  instance  of  a  revolution  having  been  effected  without  the 
concurrence  of  either  the  nobles,  or  the  ecclesiastics,  or  the  monied  classes,, 
in  any  country  in  which  the  influences  of  property  had  ever  been  predc- 
minant,  and  where  the  interests  of  the  proprietors  were  interlinked  I  Exa- 
miH'?  the  revolution  of  the  Belgic  provinces  under  Philip  2nd  ;  the  civil  war« 
of  France  in  the  preceding  generation  ;  the  history  oi  the  American  revo- 
luuun,  or  the  yet  m.ore  recent  events  in  Sweden  and  in  Spain  ;  and  it  will 
be  scarcely  possible  not  to  perceive,  that  in  England,  from  1791,  to  the 
peace  of  Ainiens,  there  were  neither  tendencues  to  confederacy,  nor  actual 
confederacies,  against  which  the  existing  laws  had  not  provided  sufficient 
safeguards  and  an  ample  punishment.  But  alas!  the  p^nic  of  property 
had  been  struck,  in  the  first  instance,  for  party  purposes ;  and  when  it 
became  general,  its  propagators  caught  it  theniselves,  and  ended  m  be- 
lieving their  own  lie  ;  even  as  our  bulls  in  Borrowdale  sometimes  run  mad 
with  the  echo  of  their  own  bellowing.  The  consequences  were  most  in- 
jur ous.  Our  attention  was  concentrated  to  a  monster,  which  could  not 
survive  the  convulsions  in  whicN  it  had  been  brought  forth:  even  the 
enlightened  Burke  himself,  too  often  talking  and  reasoning,  as  if  a  per- 
petual and  organized  anarchy  had  been  a  possible  thing  .'  Thus,  while 
we  were  warring  against  French  doctrines,  we  tQok  little  heed  whether 
the  meaiis,  by  which  ws  attempted  to  overthrow  them,  were  not  likely 
to  :Ad  ..rid  au-;merit  the  far  more  formidable  evil  of  French  ambition.  Like- 
ch'ld;en,  wc  ran  away  from  the  yelping  of  a  cur,  and  took  shelter,  at  ihst 
iieels  of  a  vicious  war-borae»'* 


13a 

judgment  on  men  and  events  ;  not  indiscriminate  abuse, . 
not  the  indulgence  of  an  editor's  own  malignant  passions  ; 
and  still  le?s,if  tint  be  possible,  a  determination  to  make 
money  by  flattering  the  envy  and  cupidity,  the  vindictive 
restlessness  and  self-conceit  of  the  half-witted  vulgar  ;  a 
determidation  almost  fiendish,  but  which,  I  have  been  in- 
formed, has  been  boastfully  avowed  by  one  man,  the  most 
notorious  of  these  mob- sycophants  !  From  the  commence- 
ment of  the  Addington  administration  to  the  present  da}', 
whatever  I  have  written  in  the  Morning  Post,  or,  (after 
that  paper  was  transferred  to  other  proprietors,)  in  the 
Courier,  has  been  in  defence  or  furtherance  of  the 
measures  af  government. 

Things  of  this  nature  scarce  survive  the  night 
That  g'ives  tbem  birth  ;  they  perish  in  the  sight, 
Cast  by  so  far  from  afler-life^  that  there 
Can  scarcely  aught  be  said,  but  that  they  were  ! 

Cartwright's  Prol,  to  the  Royal  Slave, 

Yet  in  these  labours  I  employed,  and,  in  the  belief  of 
partial  friends,  wasted,  the  prime  and  manhood  of  my  in* 
tellect.  Most  assuredly,  they  added  nothing  to  my  for- 
tune or  my  reputation.  The  industry  of  the  week  sup-^ 
plied  the  necessities  of  the  week.  From  Government  or 
the  friends  of  Government  I  not  only  never  received  re- 
muneration, or  even  expected  it  ;  but  I  was  never  ho- 
noured with  a  single  acknowledgment,  or  expression  of 
satisfaction.  Yet  the  retrospect  is  far  from  painful  or 
matter  of  regret.  I  am  not  indeed  silly  enough  to  take, 
as  any  thing  more  than  a  violent  hyperbole  of  party  de- 
bate, Mr.  Fox's  asssertion  that  the  late  w^ar  (I  trust  that 
the  epithet  is  not  prematurely  applied)  teas  a  war  prod iic- 
srd  by  the  PrloRMXG  Post  ;  or  I  should  be  proud  to  have 
the  words  inscribed  on  my  tomb.  As  little  do  I  regard 
the  circumstance,  that  1  was  a  speciiied  object  of  Bona- 
parte's resentment  during  my  residence  in  Italy,  in  con- 
sequence of  those  essays  in  the  3Iorning  Post,  during  the 
peace  of  Amiens.  (Of  this  I  was  warned,  directly,  by 
Baron  Von  Humboldt,  the  Prussian  Plenipotentiary,  who 
nt  that  time  was  the  minister  of  the  Prussian  court  at 
Rome  ;  aad  indirectly,  through  lii":  secretary.  CardiiVi)- 


133 

Fesch  himself.)  Nor  do  T  lay  any  greater  weiglitonthe 
contirmins  fact,  that  an  order  for  my  arrest  was  sent  from 
Paris,  from  which  danger  I  was  rescued  by  the  kindness 
of  a  noble  Benedictine,  and  the  gracious  connivance  of 
that  good  old  man,  the  present  Pope  For  the  late  ty- 
rants  vindictive  appetite  was  omnivorrus,  and  preyed 
equally  on  a  Due  D'Enghien,*  iind  the  writer  of  a  news- 
paper paragraph.  Like  a  true  vulture,!  Napoleon,  with 
an  eye  not  less  telescopic,  and  with  a  taste  equally  coarse 
in  his  ravin,  could  descend  from  the  most  dazzling  heights 
to  pounce  on  the  leveret  in  the  brake  nr  even  on  the 
field  mouse  amid  the  grass.  But  I  do  derive  a  gratifica- 
tion from  the  knowle«5ge,  that  my  essays  contributed  to 
introduce  the  practice  of  placing  the  questions  and  events 
of  the  day  in  a  moral  point  of  view  ;  in  giving  a  dignity 
to  particular  measures,  by  tracing  their  policy  or  impolicy 
to  permanent  principles  ;  and  an  interest  to  principles 
by  the  application  of  them  to  individual  measures.  In  Mr. 
Burke's  writings,  indeed,  the  germs  of  almost  all  political 
truths  may  be  found.  But  1  dare  assume  to  myself  the 
merit  of  having  first  explicitly  defined  and  analized  the 
nature  of  Jacobinism  ;  and  that  in  distinguishing  the  ja- 
cobin from  the  republican,  the  democrat  and  the  mere 
demagogue,  I  both  rescued  the  word  from  remaining  a 
aaere  term  of  abuse,  and  put  on  their  guard  many  honest 
minds,  who  even  in  their  heat  of  zeal  againstjacobinism,  ad- 
[nitled  or  supported  principles  from  which  the  worst  parts 
3f  that  system  may  be  legitimately  deduced.  That  these 
ire  not  necessary  prachca/  results  of  such  principles,  we 
Dwe  to  that  fortunate  inconsequence  of  our  nature,  which 
permits  the  heart  to  rectify  the  errors  of  the  understand- 
ng.  The  detailed  examination  of  the  consular  govern- 
nent  and  its  pretended  constitution,  and  the  proof  given 

*  I  seldom  think  of  the  murder  of  this  illustrious  Prince  without  recoU 
iiecting  the  lines  of  Valerius  Flaccus  (Argonaut.  Lib.  I.  30.) 


■  Super  ipsius  ingens 


Instat  fama  viri,  virtusque  haud  laeta  Tyraano  ; 
JElrgo  ante  ire  metus,  juvenemque  extinguere  pergit. 

t  0T»ja  5i  )(aJ  Tov  x^va  xa\  r-hv   AojxdJa, 
Kfli  idv  Aa^wivj  xal  to  twv  Tai/^cov  yivos. 


Phile  de  animal,  propriisii 


134 

by  me,  that  it  was  a  consummate  despotism  in  masque- 
rade, extorted  a  recantation  even  from  the  Morning  Chro- 
nicle, which  had  previously  extolled  this  constitution  as 
the  perfection  of  a  wise  and  regulated  liberty.  On  every 
great  occurrence,  I  endeavored  to  discover  in  past  his- 
tory the  event  that  most  nearly  resembled  it.  1  procured, 
wherever  it  was  possible,  the  contemporary  historians, 
memorialists,  and  pamphleteers.  Then  fairly  subtract- 
ing the  points  of  difference  from  those  of  likeness,  as  the 
balance  favoured  the  former  or  the  latter,  1  conjectured 
that  the  result  would  be  the  same  or  different.  In  the 
series  of  essays,"^  entitled,  *'  a  comparison  of  France  under 
Napoleon  with  Rome  under  the  first  Caesars,"  and  in 
those  which  followed''  on  the  probable  final  restoration 
of  the  Bourbons,"  I  feel  myself  authorized  to  affirm,  by 
the  effect  produced  on  many  intelligent  men,  that  were 
the  dates  wanting,  it  might  have  been  suspected  that  the 
essays  had  been  written  within  the  last  twelve  months. 
The  same  plan  I  pursued  at  the  commencement  of  the 
Spanish  revolution,  and  with  the  same  success,  taking 
the  war  of  the  United  Provinces  with  Phihp  2nd,  as  the 
ground  work  of  the  comparison.  I  have  mentioned  this 
from  no  motives  of  vanity,  nor  even  from  motives  of  self- 
defence,  which  would  justify  a  certain  degree  of  ego- 
tism, especially  if  it  be  considered,  how  oflen  and  grossly 
I  have  been  attacked  for  sentiments  which  1  had  exerted 
my  best  powers  to  confute  and  expose,  and  how  griev- 
ously these  charges  acted  to  my  disadvantage  while  I  was 
in  Malta.  Or,  rather,  they  would  have  done  so,  if  my 
own  feelings  had  not  precluded  the  wish  of  a  settled  es- 
tablishment in  that  island.  But  1  have  mentioned  it  from 
the  full  persuasion  that,  armed  with  the  two-fold  knowledge 
of  history  and  the  human  mind,  a  man  will  scarcely  err 
in  his  judgment  concerning  the  sum  total  of  any  future 
national  event,  if  he  have  been  able  to  procure  the  ork, 

*  A  small  selection  from  the  numerous  articles  furnished  by  me  to  thi' 
Mornino:  Post  and  Courier,  chiefly  as  ihey  regard  the  sources  and  effects 
of  jacobinism  and  the  connection  of  certain  systems  of  political  econoraj  ' 
with  Jacobinical  despotism,  will  form  part  of  ''  The  Friend,"  which  11  | 
am  now  completing-,  and  which  will  be  shortly  published,  for  I  caij 
scarcely  say  republished,  with  the  numbers  arranged  in  Chapters  ^o| 
carding  to  their  subjects. 

Accipe  principium  rursus,  cornusque  coadum 
D^sere  ;  mutata  melior  proceae  figura. 


; 


0 


185 

ginal  documents  of  the  past,  together  with  authentic  Rt- 
counts  of  the  present,  and  if  he  have  a  philosophic  tact  for 
what  is  truly  important  in  ficts,  and  in  most  instances, 
therefore,  for  such  facts  as  the  dignity  of  history  has 
excluded  from  the  volumes  of  our  modern  compilers,  by 
the  courtesy  of  the  age,  entitled  historians. 

To  have  lived  in  vain  must  be  a  painful  thought  to  any 
man,  and  especially  so  to  him  who  has  made  literature  his 
profession.  I  should  therefore  rather  condole,  than  be 
angry,  with  the  mind  which  could  attribute  to  no  wor- 
thier feelings,  than  those  of  vanity  or  self-love,  the  satis- 
faction which  I  acknowledge  to  have  enjoyed  from  the 
republication  of  my  political  essays  (either  whole  or  as 
extracts)  not  only  in  many  of  our  own  provincial  papers, but 
in  the  federal  journals  throughout  America.  I  regarded  it 
as  some  proof  of  my  not  having  laboured  altogether  in 
vain,  that  from  the  articles  written  by  me  shortly  before, 
and  at  the  commencement  of  the  late  unhappy  war  with 
America,  not  only  the  sentiments  were  adopted,  but,  in 
some  instances,  the  very  language,  in  several  of  the  Mas- 
sachusetts state- papers. 

But  no  one  of  these  motives,  nor  all  conjointly,  would 
nave  impelled  me  to  a  statement  so  uncomfortable  to  my 
own  feelings,  had  not  my  character  been  repeatedly  at- 
tacked, by  an  unjustifiable  intrusion  on  private  life,  as  of 
a  man  incorrigibly  idle,  and  who,  intrusted  not  only  with 
ample  talents,  but  favoured  with  unusual  opportunities 
of  improving  them,  had  nevertheless  suffered  them  to 
rust  away  without  any  efficient  exertion  either  for  his 
own  good  or  that  of  his  fellow  creatures.  Even  if  the 
compositions,  which  I  have  made  public,  and  that  too  in 
a  form  the  most  certain  of  an  extensive  circulation,  though 
the  least  flattering  to  an  author's  self-love,  had  been  pub- 
lished in  books,  they  would  have  filled  a  respectable 
number  of  volumes,  though  every  passage  of  merely  tem- 
porary interest  were  omitted.  My  prose  WTitings  have 
been  charged  with  a  disproportionate  demand  on  the  at- 
tention ;  with  an  excess  of  refinement  in  the  mode  of  ar- 
riving at  truths  ;  with  beating  the  ground  for  that  which 
might  have  been  run  down  by  the  eye  ;.  with  the  length 
and  laborious  construction  of  my  periods  ;  in  short,  with 
obscurity  and  the  love  of  paradox.  But  my  severest 
critics  have  not  pretended  to  have  found  in  mj  composi- 


136 

tions  triviality,  or  traces  of  a  mind  that  shrunk  from  the 
toil  of  thinking.  Ko  one  has  charged  me  with  tricking 
out  in  other  words  the  thoughts  of  others,  or  with  hash- 
ing up  anew  the  crambe  jam  decies  coctam  of  English 
literature  or  philosophy.  Seldom  have  I  written  that  in 
a  day.  the  acquisition  or  investigation  of  which  had  not 
cost  me  the  previous  labour  of  a  month. 

But  are  books  the  only  channel  through  which  the 
stream  of  intellectual  usefulness  can  tiow  ?  Is  tht^  diffu- 
sion of  truth  to  be  estimated  by  publications  ;  or  publica- 
tions by  the  truth  which  they  diffuse,  or  at  least  contain  ? 
I  speak  it  in  the  excusable  warmth  of  a  mind  stun>c  by  an 
accusation  which  has  not  only  been  advanced  in  reviews 
of  the  widest  circulation,  not  only  registered  in  the  btilk- 
iest  works  of  periodical  literature,  but,  by  frequency  of 
repetition,  has  become  an  admitted  fact  in  private  litera- 
ry circles,  and  thoughtlessly  repeated  by  too  many  who 
call  themselves  my  friends,  and  whose  own  recollections 
ought  to  have  suggested  a  contrary  testimony.  Would 
that  the  criterion  of  a  scholar's  utility  were  the  number 
and  moral  value  of  the  truths  which  he  has  been  the 
means  of  throwing  into  the  general  circulation  ;  or  the 
number  and  value  of  the  minds,  whom,  by  his  conversa-  i 
tion  or  letters,  he  has  excited  into  activity,  and  sTipplied  I 
with  the  germs  of  their  aftergrowth  I  A  distinguished 
rank  might  not,  indeed,  even  then,  be  awarded  to  my 
exertions,  but  I  should  dare  look  forward  with  confidence  i 
to  an  honourable  acquittal,  i  should  dare  appeal  to  the  I 
numerous  and  respectable  audiences,  which,  at  diiierent 
times,  and  in  different  places,  honoured  my  lecture-rooms 
with  their  attendance,  whether  the  points  of  view  from 
which  the  subjects  treated  of  were  surveyed,  whether 
the  grounds  of  my  reasoning  were  such,  as  they  had 
heard  or  read  elsewhere,  or  have  since  found  in  previ- 
ous publications.  I  can  conscientiously  declare,  that  the 
complete  success  of  the  Remorse  on  the  first  night  of  its 
representation,  did  not  give  me  as  great  or  as  heart-felt 
a  pleasure,  as  the  observation  that  the  pit  and  boxes 
w^ere  crowded  with  faces  familiar  to  me,  though  of  indi- 
viduals whose  names  i  did  not  know,  and  of  whom  I 
knew  nothing,  but  that  they  had  attended  one  or  other 
ofmy  (ourses  of  lectures.  It  is  an  excellent,  though 
perhaps  somewhat  vulgar  proverbj  that  there  are  cases 


137 

where  a  man  may  be  ^s  well  "  in  for  a  pound  as  for  a 
p€7iny.''^  To  those,  who  from  ignorance  of  the  serious 
injury  I  have  received  from  this  rumour  of  having 
dreamt  away  my  life  to  no  purpose,  injuries  which  1 
\inwillingly  remember  at  ail,  much  less  am  disposed  to 
record  in  a  sketch  of  my  literarj^  life  ;  or  to  those,  who 
from  their  own  feelings,  or  the  gratification  they  derive 
from  thinking  contemptuously  of  others,  would,  like  Job's 
comforters,  attribute  these  complaints,  extorted  from  me 
by  the  sense  of  wrong,  to  self-conceit  or  presumptuous 
vanity,  I  have  already  furnished  such  ample  materi  ds, 
that  I  shall  gain  nothing  by  witholding  the  remainder. 
I  will  not,  therefore,  hesitate  to  ask  the  consciences  of 
those,  who,  from  their  long  acquaintance  with  me  and 
with  the  circumstances,  are  best  qualified  to  decide,  or  be 
my  judges,  whether  the  restitution  of  the  suum  cuique 
would  increase  or  detract  from  my  literary  reputation. 
In  this  exculpation,  I  hope  to  be  understood  as  speaking 
of  myself  comparatively,  and  in  proportion  to  the  claims 
which  others  are  entitled  to  make  on  my  time  or  my 
talents.  By  what  I  have  efiected,  am  I  to  be  judged  by 
my  fellow  men  ;  what  I  coidd  have  done,  is  a  question 
for  my  own  conscience.  On  my  own  account  I  may 
perhaps  have  had  sufficient  reason  to  lament  my  deficien- 
cy in  self-controul,  and  the  neglect  of  concentreing  my 
powers  to  the  realization  of  some  permanent  work. 
But  to  verse  rather  than  to  prose,  if  to  either,  belongs 
the  voice  of  mourning"  for 

Keen  pangs  of  love  awakening  as  a  babe, 

Turbulent,  with  an  outcry  in  the  heart, 

And  fears  self-will'd  thatshunn'd  the  eye  of  hope, 

And  hope  that  scarce  would  know  itself  from  fear; 

Sense  of  past  youth,  and  manhood  come  in  vain 

And  genius  given  and  knowledge  won  in  vain, 

And  all  which  1  had  culPd  in  wood-walks  wild, 

And  all  which  patient  toil  had  rear'd,  and  all 

Commune  with  thee  had  open'd  out — but  flowers 

Strew'd  on  my  corpse,  and  borne  upon  my  bier 

In  the  same  coffin,  for  the  self-same  grave  !  S.  T.  C. 

These  wil)  exist,  for  the  future,  I  trust,  only  in  the  po- 
etic strains,  which  the  feelings  at  the  time  called  forth. 
In  those  only,  gentle  readerj 

Vol.  L  12 


138 

Affectus  animi  varies,  bellumque  sequacis 
Perlegis  iovidiae  ;  curasque  revolvis  inanes  ; 
Quas  humilis  tenero  stylus  olim  effudit  in  asvo. 
Ferlegis  et  lacrymas,  et  quod  pharetralus  acut^ 
Ille  puer  puero  fecit  mihi  cuspide  vulnus. 
Omnia  paulatim  consumit  long  tor  jet  as 
VivEyDoq^vE  simul  morimur  bapimurque  manendo. 
Ipse  mihi  collatus  enim  nou  iile  videbor  ; 
FroDS  alia  est,  moresque  alii,  nova  mentis  imago, 
Vox  aliudque  sonat.     Jamque  observatio  vil^ 
Multa  dedit  j— lug-ere  nihil,  ferre  omnia  ;  jamque 
Paulatim  lacrymas  rerura  experientia  tersit. 


13» 


CHAPTER  XL 

dn  affectionate  exhortation  to  those  who  in  early  life  feel* 
themselves  disposed  to  become  authors. 

It  was  a  favourite  remark  of  the  late  Mr.  Whitbread, 
that  no  man  does  any  thing  from  a  single  motire.  The 
separate  motives,  or,  rather,  moods  of  mind,  which  pro- 
duced the  preceding  reflections  and  anecdotes  have  been 
laid  open  to  the  reader  in  each  separate  instance  But^ 
an  interest  in  the  welfare  of  those  who.  at  the  present 
time,  may  be  in  circumstances  not  dissimilar  to  my  own 
at  my  first  entrance  into  life,  has  been  the  constant  ac- 
companiment, and,  (as  it  were,)  the  under-song  of  all 
my  feelings.  Whitehead,  exerting  the  prerogative  of  his 
laureatship,  addressed  to  youthful  poets  a  poetic  charge, 
which  is  perhaps  the  best,  and  certainly  the  most  inte- 
resting of  his  works.  With  no  other  privilege  than  that 
of  sympathy  and  sincere  good  wishes,  1  would  address 
an  affectionate  exhortation  to  the  youthful  literati,  ground- 
ed on  my  own  experience.  It  will  be  but  short ;  for  the 
beginning,   middle,  and  end,  converge   to  one   charge  : 

NEVER  PURSUE  LITERATURE  AS  A  TRADE.  With  the  ex- 
ception of  one  extraordinary  man,  I  have  never  known 
an  individual,  least  of  all  an  individual  of  genius,  healthy 
or  happy  without  a  profession^  i.  e.  some  regular  employ- 
ment which  does  not  depend  on  the  will  of  the  moment, 
and  which  can  be  carried  on  so  far  mechanically ,  that  an 
average  quantum  only  of  health,  spirits,  and  intellectual 
exertion,  are  requisite  to  its  faithful  discharge.  Three 
hours  of  leisure,  unannoyed  hy  any  alien  anxiety,  and 
looked  forward  to  with  delight  as  a  change  and  recrea- 
tion, will  suffice  to  realize  in  literature  a  larger  product 
of  what  is  truly  genial^  than  weeks  of  compulsion.  Mo- 
ney and  immediate  reputation,  form  only  an  arbitrary  and 
accidental  end  of  literary  labour.  The  hope  of  increas- 
ing them  by  any  given  exertion,  will  often  prove  a  stimu- 
lant to  industry  ;  but  the  necessity  of  acquiring  them, 
will,  in  a]]  works  of  genius,  convert  the  stimulant  into  a 
narcotic.     Motives  by  excess  reverse  their  very  nature^ 


140 

'^nd.  instead  of  exciting,  stun  and  stupify  the  mind.  For 
it  is  one  contradistinction  of  genius  from  talent,  that  ils 
predominant  end  is  always  comprised  in  the  means  ;  and 
Ihis  is  one  of  the  many  points  which  establish  an  analogy 
between  genius  and  virtue.  Now,  though  talents  may 
exist  without  genius^  yet  as  genius  cannot  exist,  certainly 
not  manifest  itself,  without  talents,  I  would  advise  every 
scholar  who  feels  the  genial  power  working  within  him, 
so  far  to  make  a  division  between  the  two,  as  that  he 
, should  devote  his  talents  to  the  acquirement  of  compe- 
tence in  some  known  trade  or  profession,  and  his  genius 
to  objects  of  his  tranquil  and  unbiassed  choice  ;  while  the 
consciousness  of  being  actuated  in  both  alike  by  the  sin- 
cere desire  to  perform  his  duty,  wmII  alike  ennoble  both. 
My  dear  young  friend,  (1  would  say,)  "  suppose  your- 
self €v-tablished  in  any  honourable  occupation.  From  the 
manufactory,  or  counting-house,  from  ihe  law  court  or 
from  having  visited  your  last  patient,  you  return  at  even- 
ing, 

**  Dear  tranquil  time,  when  the  sweet  sense  of  home 
Is  sweetest — — " 

to  your  family,  prepared  for  its  social  enjoyments,  with 
the  very  countenances  of  your  wife  and  children  bright- 
ened, and  their  voice  of  welcome,  made  doubly  welcome 
by  the  knowledge  that,  as  far  as  they  are  concerned,  you 
have  satisfied  the  demands  of  the  day  by  the  labour  of 
the  day.  Then,  when  you  retire  into  your  study,  in  the 
books  on  your  shelves,  you  revisit  so  many  venerable 
friends  witli  whom  you  can  converse.  Your  own  spirit, 
scarcely  less  free  from  perj?onal  anxieties  than  the  great 
minds  that,  in  those  books,  are  still  living  for  you  !  Even 
your  writing  desk,  with  its  blank  paper,  and  all  its  other" 
implements,  will  appear  as  a  chain  of  flowers,  capable  of 
linking  your  feelings,  as  well  as  thoughts,  to  events  and 
characters  past  or  to  come  ;  not  a  chain  of  iron,  which 
binds  you  down  to  think  of  the  future,  and  the  remote,  by 
recalling  the  claims  and  feelings  of  the  peremptory  pre- 
.sent.  But  why  should  1  say  retire  ?  The  habits  of  ac- 
tive life  and  daily  intercourse  with  the  stir  of  the  world, 
will  tend  to  give  you  such  self-command,  that  the  pre- 
sence of  your  family  will  be  no  interruption  Nay,  the 
aocial  silence  or  undisturbing  voices  of  a  wife  or  sister. 


141 

will  be  like  a  restorati^'e  atmosphere,  or  soft  music,  which 
moulds  a  dream  without  becoming  its  object.  If  facts 
are  required,  to  prove  the  possibility  of  combining  weighty 
performances  in  literature  with  full  and  independent  em- 
ployment, the  works  of  Cicero  and  Xenophon  among  the 
ancients,  of  Sir  Thomas  Moore,  Bacon,  Baxter,  or,  to 
refer,  at  once,  to  later  and  contemporary  instances,  Dar- 
win and  RoscoE,  are  at  once  decisive  of  the  question. 

But  all  men  may  not  dare  promise  themselves  a  suffi- 
ciency of  self-controul  for  the  imitation  of  those  exam- 
ples ;  though  strict  scrutiny  should  always  be  made, 
whether  indolence,  restlessness,  or  a  vanity  impatient  for 
immediate  gratification,  have  not  tampered  with  the  judg- 
ment, and  assumed  the  vizard  of  humility,  for  the  pur» 
poses  of  self-delusion.  Still  the  church  presents  to  every 
man  of  learning  and  genius  a  profession,  in  which  he  may 
cherish  a  rational  hope  of  being  able  to  unite  the  wildest 
schemes  of  literary  utility  with  the  strictest  performance 
of  professional  duties.  Among  the  numerous  blessings  of 
Christianity,  the  introduction  of  an  established  church 
makes  an  especial  claim  on  the  gratitude  of  scholars  and 
philosophers  ;  in  England,  at  least,  where  the  principles 
of  protestantism,  have  conspired  with  the  freedom  of  the 
government,  to  double  all  its  salutary  powers  by  the  re- 
moval of  its  abuses. 

That  not  only  the  maxims,  but  the  grounds  of  a  pure 
morality,  the  mere  fragments  of  which, 

" the  lofty  grave  tragedians  taught 

In  chorus  or  iambic,  teachers  best 

Of  moral  prudence,  with  delight  received 

In  brief  sententious  precepts  ;" 

Paradise  Regained* 

and  that  the  sublime  truths  of  the  divine  unity  and  attri- 
butes, which  a  Plato  found  most  hard  to  learn,  and  deem- 
ed it  still  more  difficult  to  reveal  ;  that  these  should  have 
become  the  almost  hereditary  property  of  childhood  and 
poverty,  of  the  hovel  and  the  workshop  ;  that,  even  to  the 
unlettered,  they  sound  as  coimnon place ^  is  a  phenomenon, 
which  must  withhold  all  but  minds  of  the  most  vulgar 
cast  from  undervaluing  the  services  even  of  the  pulpit 
and  the  reading  desk.  Yet  those,  who  confine  the  effi 
13^ 


142 

ciency  of  an  established  church  (o  Ms  public  office?,  can 
hardly  be  placet!  in  a  much  higher  rank  of  intellect. 
That  to  every  parish  throughout  the  kingdom  there  is 
transplanted  a  germ  of  civilization  ;  th^t  in  the  remotest 
villages  there  is  a  nucleus,  round  whi^ch  the  capabilities 
of  the  place  may  crystallize  and  brighten  ;  a  model,  suf- 
ficiently superior  to  excite,  yet,  sufficiently  near  to  en- 
courage and  facilitate  imitation  ;  this,  the  inobtrusive, 
continuous  agency  of  a  protestant  church  establishment, 
this  it  is,  which  the  patriot,  and  the  philanthropist,  who 
^ould  fain  unite  the  love  of  peace  with  the  faith  in  the 
progressive  ameUoration  of  mankind,  cannot  estimate  at 
too  high  a  price.  "  It  cannot  be  valued  with  the  gold  of 
Ophir,  with  the  precious  onyx,  or  the  sapphire.  No  men- 
tion shall  be  made  of  coral  or  of  pearls,  for  the  price 
of  wisdom  is  above  rubies."  The  clergyman  is  with  his 
f)arishioners,  and  among  them  ;  he  is  neither  in  the  clois- 
tered cell  or  in  the  wilderness,  but  a  neighbour  and  a 
family-man,  whose  education  and  rank  admit  him  to  the 
mansion  of  the  rich  landholder,  while  his  duties  make  him 
the  frequent  visiter  of  the  farm-house  and  the  cottage. 
He  is,  or  he  may  become,  connected  with  the  families  of 
his  parish,  or  its  vicinity,  by  marriage.  And  among  the 
instances  of  the  blindness,  or  at  best,  of  the  short  sight- 
edness,  which  it  is  the  nature  of  cupidity  to  inflict,  I 
know  ievf  moi'^  striking  than  the  clamours  of  the  far- 
m^^rs  against  church  property.  Whatever  was  not  paid  to 
the  clergyman  W'ould  inevitably  at  the  next  lease  be  paid 
to  the  landholder  ;  while,  as  the  case  at  present  stand?,  the 
revenues  of  the  church  are,  in  some  sor\  the  reversionary 
property  of  every  family,  that  may  have  a  member  edu- 
cated for  the  church,  or  a  daughter  that  may  marry  a 
clergyman,  instead  of  being  ^brec/os^c/ and  immovable, 
it  is  in  fact  the  only  species  of  landed  property  that  is 
essentially  moving  and  circulative.  That  there  exist  no 
inconveniences,  who  will  pretend  to  assort  ?  But  I  have 
yet  to  expect  the  proof,  that  the  inconveniences  are  great- 
er in  this  than  in  any  otner  species;  or,  that  either  the 
farmers  or  the  clergy  would  be  benefited  by  forcing  the 
latter  to  become  Q\{he.v  Trullibers.  ox  salaried  p/aee.'?ien. 
Nay,  r  do  not  hesitate  to  declare  my  firm  persuasion,  that 
>vb'atever  reason  of  discontent  the  farmers  may  assign  the 
true  catise  is  this;  that  they  may  cheat  ihG  parson^  but 


143 

cannot  cheat  the  steward  ;  and  they  are  disappointed,  if 
they  shoul'i  have  been  able  to  withhold  only  two  pounds 
less  than  the  legal  claim,  having  expected  to  withhold 
five.  At  all  events,  considered  relatively  to  the  encour- 
agement of  learning  and  genius,  the  establishment  pre- 
sents a  patronage,  at  once  so  effective  and  unburthensome, 
that  it  would  be  impossible  to  afford  the  like,  or  equal,  in 
any  but  a  christian  and  protestant  country  There  is 
scarce  a  department  of  human  knowledge,  without  some 
bearing  on  the  various  critical,  historical,  philosophical, 
and  moral  truths,  in  which,  the  scholar  must  be  interested 
as  a  clergyman;  no  one  pursuit  worthy  of  a  man  of  ge- 
nius, which  may  ^not  be  followed  without  incongruityo 
To  give  the  history  of  the  bible  as  a  book,  would  be  liUle 
less  than  to  relate  the  origin,  or  first  excitement,  of  all  the 
literature  and  science,  that  we  now  possess.  The  very 
decorum,  which  the  profession  imposes,  is  favourable  to 
the  best  purposes  of  genius,  and-  tends  to  counteract  its 
most  frequent  defects.  Finally,  that  man  must  be  defi- 
cient in  sensibility,  who  would  not  find  an  incentive  to 
emulation  in  the  great  and  burning  lights,  which,  in  a 
long  series  have  illustrated  the  church  of  England  ;  who 
would  not  hear  from  within  an  echo  to  the  voice  from  their 
sacred  shrines, 

"  Et  Pater  ^Eneas  et  avunculus  excitat  Hector." 

But,  w^hatever  be  the  profession  or  trade  chosen,  the 
advantages  are  many  and  important,  compared  with  the 
stato  of  a  mere  literary  maw,  who,  in  any  degree,  depends 
on  the  sale  of  his  works  for  the  necessaries  and  comfi^rtS^ 
of  iite.  In  the  former  a  man  lives  in  sympathy  with  the 
world  in  which  he  lives.  At  l^ast,  he  acquires  a  better 
and  quicker  tact  tor  the  knowledge  of  that  with  which 
men  in  general  can  sympathize.  He  learns  to  manage 
his  genius  more  prudently  and  efficaciously.  His  pow- 
ers and  acquirements  gain  him  likewise  more  real  admi- 
ration, for  they  surpass  the  legitimate  expectations  of 
others.  He  is  something  besides  an  author,  and  is  not 
therefore  considered  merel)^^  as  an^  author.  The  hearts 
of  men  are  open  to  him,  as  to  one  of  their  own  class  ; 
and  whether  he  exerts  himself  or  not  in  the  conversa- 
tional circles  ot    bis  acquaintaace^  his  silence  is  not  at- 


144 

tributed  to  pride,  nor  Lis  communicativeness  to  vanity. 
To  tliese  advantages  1  wiil  venture  to  add  a  superior 
chance  of  happiness  in  domestic  Hfe,  w^ere  it  only  that  it 
is  as  natural  for  the  man  to  be  out  of  the  circle  of  his 
household  during  the  day,  as  it  is  meritorious  for  tiie 
woman  to  remain  for  the  most  part  within  it.  But  this 
subject  involves  points  of  consideration  so  numerous  and 
so  delicate,  and  would  not  only  permit,  but  require  such 
ample  documents  from  the  biography  of  literary  men, 
that  1  now  merely  allude  to  it  in  transitu.  When  the 
same  circumstance  has  occurred  at  very  diflerent  times 
to  very  different  persons,  all  of  whom  have  some  one 
thing  in  common,  there  is  reason  to  suppose  that  such 
circumstance  is  not  merely  attributable  to  the  persons 
concerned,  but  is,  in  some  measure,  occasioned  by  the 
one  point  in  common  to  them  all.  Instead  of  the  vehe- 
ment and  almost  slanderous  dehortation  from  marriage, 
which  the  Misogyne,  Boccaccio  (^Vita  e  Cost u mi  di  Dante, 
p.  12.  16.)  addresses  to  literary  men,  I  vt^ould  substitute 
the  simple  advice  :  be  not  merely  a  man  of  letters  !  Let 
literature  be  an  honourable  augmentation  to  your  arms, 
but  not  constitute  the  coat,  or  till  the  escutchion  ! 

To  objections  from  conscience  1  can  of  course  answer 
in  no  other  wa}^,  than  by  requesting  the  youthful  ob- 
jector (as  I  have  already  done  on  a  former  occasion)  to 
ascertain  with  strict  self-examination,  whether  other  in- 
fluences may  not  be  at  work  ;  whether  spirits,  "  not  of 
healih^'^  and  with  whispers  *'  not  from  heaven,^^  may  not 
be  walking  in  the  ticilight  of  his  consciousness.  Let  him 
catalogue  his  scruples,  and  reduce  them  to  a  distinct  in- 
telligible form  ;  let  him  be  certain,  that  he  has  read  with 
*a  docile  mind  and  favourable  dispositions  the  best  and  most 
fundamental  works  on  the  subject ;  that  he  has  had  both 
mind  and  heart  opened  to  the  great  and  illustrious  quah- 
ties  of  the  many  renowned  characters,  who  had  doubted 
like  himself,  and  whose  researches  had  ended  in  the 
clear  conviction,  that  their  doubts  had  been  groundless, 
or  at  least  in  no  proportion  to  the  counter-weight.  Hap- 
py will  it  be  for  such  a  man,  if,  among  his  contempora- 
ries elder  than  himself,  he  should  meet  with  one,  who 
with  similar  powers,  and  feelings  as  acute  as  his  own, 
had  entertained  the  same  scruples  ;  had  acted  upon  them  ; 
and  who,  by  after-research  (when  the  step  was,  ala§  ' 


145 

if  retrievable,  but  for  that  very  reason  his  research  un- 
deniably disinterested)  had  discovered  himself  to  have 
quarrelled  with  received  opinions  only  to  embrace  er- 
rors, to  have  left  the  direction  tracked  out  for  him  on 
the  high  road  of  honourable  exertion,  only  to  deviate  in 
to  a  labyrinth,  where,  wlien  he  had  wandered,  till  his 
head  w^as  giddy,  his  best  good  fortune  was  finally  to  have 
found  his  way  out  again,  too  late  for  prudence,  though 
not  too  late  for  conscience  or  for  truth  !  Time  spent 
in  such  delay  is  time  won  ;  for  manhood  in  the  mean 
time  is  advancing,  and  with  it  increase  of  knowledge, 
strength  of  judgment,  and,  above  all,  temperance  of  feel- 
ings. And  even  if  these  should  effect  no  change,  vet 
the  delay  will  at  least  prevent  the  final  approval  of  the 
decision  from  being  alloyed  by  the  inward  censure  of  the 
rashness  and  vanity,  by  which  it  had  been  precipitated. 
It  would  be  a  sort  of  irreligion,  and  scarcely  less  than  a 
libel  on  human  nature,  to  believe  that  there  is  any  esta- 
blished and  reputable  profession  or  employment,  in  which 
a  man  may  not  continue  to  act  with  honesty  and  honour  ; 
and,  doubtless,  there  is  likewise  none,  which  may  not  at 
times,  present  temptations  to  the  contrary.  But  woful- 
1}'  will  that  man  find  himself  mistaken,  who  imagines 
that  the  profession  of  literature,  or  (to  speak  more  plain- 
ly) the  trade  of  authorship,  besets  its  members  with  few- 
er or  with  less  insidious  temptations,  than  the  church, 
the  law,  or  the  different  branches  of  commerce.  But  I 
have  treated  sufficiently  on  this  unpleasant  subject  in  an 
early  chapter  of  this  volume.  I  will  conclude  the  pre- 
sent, therefore,  with  a  short  extract  from  Herder,  whose 
name  I  might  have  added  to  the  illustrious  list  of  those, 
who  have  combined  the  successful  pursuit  of  the  muses, 
not  only  with  the  faithful  discharge,  but  with  the  highest 
honours  and  honourable  emoluments  of  an  established 
profession.  The  translation  the  reader  will  find  in  a 
note  below.*  ''  Am  sorgfaltigsten,  nieiden  sie  die  Au- 
torschaft.  Zu  friih  oder  unmassig  gebraucht,  macht  sie 
den  Kopf  wiiste  und  das  Herz  leer ;  wenn  sie  auch  sonst 


^Translation. — "With  the  greatest  possible  solicitude  avoid  author- 
ship. Too  early,  or  immoderately  employed,  it  makes  the  head  waste  and 
the  heart  empty  ;  even  were  there  no  other  worse  consequences.  A  per- 
son, who  reads'  only  to  print,  in  eill  probability  i^eads  amiss  j  and  he,  who 


14(j 

keine  uble  Folgen  gkbe.  Ein  Mensch,  der  nur  liesei 
urn  zu  driicken,  iieset  wahrscheinlich  iibel  ;  und  wer 
jeden  Gedanken,  der  ihm  aufstosst,  darch  Feder  und 
Fresse  versendet,  hat  sie  in  kurzer  Zeit  alle  versandt, 
und  wird  bald  ein  blosser  Diener  der  Druckerey,  ein 
Buchstabensetzer  vverden^ 

Herder. 

sfends  awav^  throai^h  the  pen  and  the  press,  every  thoug-ht,  the  moment  it- 
occurs  to  fiim,  wih  in  a  short  time  have  sent  all  a'way,  and  will  become  a 
mere  journeyman  of  the  printing-olTice,  a  compositor.''^ 

To  which  I  may  add  from  myself,  that  what  medical  physiolog:ists  af^ 
firm  of  certain  secretions,  applies  equally  to  our  thoughts  ;  Ihey  too  must 
be  taken  up  again  into  the  circulation,  and  be  again  and  again  re-secret- 
ed, in  order  to  ensure  a  h^^altlitul  vigour,  both  to  the  mind  and  to  its  iiitel^ 
lectuai  offs|)ring» 


147 


CHAPTER  Xn. 

j1   Chapter  of  requests  and  premonitions  concerning    the 
perusal  or  omission  of  the  chapter  thatfoUoTvs, 

In  the  perusal  of  philosophical  works,  I  have  been 
greatly  benefitted  by  a  resolve,  which,  in  the  antithetic 
form,  and  with  the  allowed  quaintness  of  an  adage  or  max- 
im, 1  have  been  accustomed  to  word  thus  :  "  until  you  un- 
derstand a  writer^s  ignorance,  presume  yoursef  ignorant 
of  his  understanding,'^^  This  golden  ride  of  mine  does,  I 
own,  resemble  those  of  Pythagoras,  in  its  obscurit}^  rather 
than  in  its  depth.  If,  however,  the  reader  will  permit 
me  to  be  my  own  Hierocles,  I  trust  that  he  will  find  its 
meaning  fully  explained  by  the  following  instances.  I 
have  now  before  me  a  treatise  of  a  religious  fanatic,  full 
of  dreams  aud  supernatural  experiences,  I  see  clearly  the 
writer's  grounds,  and  their  hollowness.  I  have  a  com- 
plete insight  into  the  causes,  which,  through  the  medium 
of  his  body,  had  acted  on  his  mind  ;  and  by  applica- 
tion of  received  and  ascertained  laws,  I  can  satisfactorily 
explain  to  my  own  reason  all  the  strange  incidents  which 
the  tvriter  records  of  himself  And  this  I  can  do  without 
suspecting  him  of  any  intentionrtl  falsehood.  As  when  in 
broad  day-light  a  man  tracks  tlie  ste])s  of  a  traveller,  who 
had  lost  his  way  in  a  fog,  or  by  treacherous  moonshine  ; 
even  so,  and  with  the  same  tranquil  sense  of  certainty, 
can  I  follow  the  traces  of  this  bevvildered  visionary.     I 

UNDERSTAND  HIS  IGNORANCE. 

On  the  other  hand,  I  have  been  re-perusing,  with  the 
best  energies  of  my  mind,  the  Timaeus  of  Plato.  What- 
ever 1  comprehend,  impresses  me    with   a  reverential 
sense  of  the  author's  genius  ;   but  there  is  a  considerable 
portion  of  the  work,  to  which  \  can  attach  no  consistent 
meaning.    In  other  treatises  of  the  same  philosopher,  in- 
tended for  the  average  comprehensions  of  men,  1  have 
been  delighted  with  the  masterly  go^od  sense,   with  the 
perspicuity  of  the  language,  and  tlie  aptness  of  the  induc- 
tions.     I  recollect,  likewise,  that  numerous  passages  ia 
•this  author,  which  I  thoroughly  compreliend^  were  for- 


148 

merly  no  less  unintelligible  to  me,  than  the  passages  now 
in  q  lestion.  U  would,  1  am  -nware,  be  qrite  fashionahle 
to  dismiss  them  at  once  as^Phitonic  Jarsjon  Bat  this  I 
cannot  do,  with  satisfaction  to  my  own  mind,  because  I 
have  sought  in  Vr>in  for  causes  adequate  to  the  solution 
of  the  assumed  inconsistency.  1  have  no  insi-rht  into  the 
possibility  of  a  man  so  eminently  wise,  usin^  ^\ords  with 
such  nalf-meanincrs  to  himself,  as  must  perforce  pass  into 
no-meaning  to  his  readers.  When,  in  addition  to  the  mo- 
tives thus  suggested  by  my  own  reason,  I  bring  into  dis- 
tinct remembrance  the  number  and  the  series  of  great 
men,  who,  after  long  and  zealous  study  of  these  works, 
had  joined  in  honouring  the  name  of  Plato  with  epithets, 
that  almost  transcend  humanity,  1  feel  that  a  contemptuous 
verdict  on  my  part  might  argue  want  of  modesty,  but 
would  hardly  be  received  by  the  judicious,  as  evidence  of 
superior  penetration.  Therefore,  utterly  baffled  in  all 
my  attempts  to  understand  the  ignorance  of  Plato,  1  con- 
clude  MYSELF  IGNORANT  OF  HIS  UNDERSTANDirTG. 

In  lieu  of  the  various  requests,  which  t'*e  anxiety  of 
authorship  addresses  to  the  unknown  reader,  I  advance 
but  this  one  ;  that  he  will  either  pass  over  the  following 
chapter  altogether,  or  read  the  whole  connectedly.  The 
fairest  part  of  the  most  beautiful  body  will  appear  deform- 
ed and  monstrous,  if  dissevered  from  its  place  in  the  or- 
ganic whole.  Na}^  on  delicate  subjects,  where  a  seem- 
inaly  trilling  difference  of  more  or  less  may  constitute  a 
difference  in  kiiid^  even  ^faithful  display  of  th^  main  and 
supporting  ideas,  if  yet  they  are  separated  from  the  forms 
by  which  they  are  at  once  cloathed  and  modified,  may 
perchance  present  a  skeleton  indeed  ;  but  a  skeleton  to 
alarm  and  deter.  Though  I  might  find  numerous  precedents, 
I  shall  not  desire  the  reader  to  strip  his  mind  of  all  prejudi- 
ces, or  to  keep  all  prior  systems  out  of  view  during  his  exa- 
mination of  the  present.  For,  in  truth,  such  requests  appear 
to  me  not  much  unlike  the  advice  given  to  hypochondriacal 
patients  in  Dr.  Buchan's  domestic  medicine;  videlicet,  to 
preserve  themselves  uniformly  tranquil  and  in  good  spi- 
rits.- Till  I  had  discovered  the  art  of  destroying  the  me- 
memory  a  parte  post,  without  injury  to  its  future  opera- 
tions, and  without  detriment  to  the  judgment,  I  should 
suppress  the  request  as  premature  ;  and,  therefore,  how- 
ever much  I  n:)ay  u-ish  to  be  read  with  an  iJrt^Meiudiced 


149 

m«nd,  I  do  wet  presume  to  state  it  as  a  necessary  coii- 
dition. 

The  extent  of  my  daring  is  to  suggest  one  criterion, 
by  which  it  may  be  rationally  conjectured  before-hand, 
whether  or  no  a  reader  would  lose  his  time,  and  perhaps 
his  temper,  in  the  perusal  of  this,  or  any  other  treatise 
constructed  on  similar  principles.  But  it  would  be  cru- 
elly misinterpreted,  as  implying  the  least  disrespect  either 
for  the  moral  or  intellectual  qualities  of  the  individuals 
thereby  precluded.  The  criterion  is  this  :  if  a  man  re- 
ceives as  fundamental  facts,  and  therefore  of  course  in- 
demonstrable, and  incapable  of  further  analysis,  the  gene- 
ral notions  of  matter,  soul,  bod}^  action,  passiveness, 
time,  space,  cause  and  effect,  consciousness,  perception, 
memory  and  habit ;  if  he  feels  his  mind  completely  at 
rest  concerning  all  these,  and  is  satisfied  if  only  he  can 
analyse  all  other  notions  into  some  one  or  more  of  these 
supposed  elements,  with  plausible  subordination  and 
apt  arrangement  :  to  such  a  mind  I  would  as  courteousl}^ 
as  possible  convey  the  hint,  that  for  him  the  chapter  wns 
not  written. 

Vir  bonus  es,  doctus,  prudens  ;  ast  hand  lihi  spiro. 

For  these  terms  do,  in  truth,  include  all  the  difficulties 
wbich  the  human  mind  can  propose  for  solution.  Taking 
them,  therefore,  in  mass,  and  unexamined,  it  requires 
only  a  decent  apprenticeship  in  logic,  to  draw  forth  their 
contents  in  all  forms  and  colours,  as  the  professors  of 
legerdemain  at  our  village  fairs,  pull  out  ribbon  after 
ribbon  from  their  mouths.  And  not  more  difficult  is  it  to 
reduce  them  back  again  to  their  different  genera.  But 
though  this  analysis  is  highly  useful  in  rendering  our 
knowledge  more  distinct,  it  does  not  really  add  to  it.  It 
does  not  increase,  though  it  gives  us  a  greater  mastery 
over,  the  wealth  which  we  before  possessed.  For 
forensic  purposes,  for  all  the  established  professions  of 
society,  this  is  sufficient.  But  for  philosophy  in  its  high- 
est sense,  as  the  science  of  ultimate  truths,  and  therefor 
scientia  scientiarum,  this  mere  analysis  of  terms  is  prepa- 
rative only,  though,  as  a  preparative  discipline,  indispensa- 
ble. 

Vol.   W  13 


150 

Stiillessdare  a  fayonrable  perusal  be  uuticipated  from 
?.he  proselytes  of  that  coriipendious  philosophy,  which 
talking  of  mind  but  thinkino;  of  brick  and  moilar,  or  other 
images  equally  abstracted  Irom  bod}',  contrives  a  theory 
of  spirit  by  nicknaming  matter,  and  in  a  few  hours  can 
-qualify  its  dullest  disciples  to  explain  the  omne  scibile 
by  reducing  all  things  to  impressions,  ideas,  and  sensa- 
fions. 

But  it  is  time  to  tell  the  truth  ;  though  it  requires 
•some  courage  to  avow  it  in  an  age  and  country,  in  whicli 
disquisitions  on  all  subjects,  not  privileged  to  adopt 
technical  terms  or  scientific  symbols,  must  be  addressed 
to  the  PUBLIC.  I  say  then,  that  it  is  neither  possible  or 
necessary  for  all  men,  or  for  man}^  to  be  philosophers. 
There  is  a  philosophic,  (and  inasnauch  as  it  is  actualized 
by  an  eflbrt  of  freedom,  an  artificial)  cojiscioiisness^whicii 
lies  beneath,  or,  (as  it  were,)  behind  the  spontaneous 
/consciousness  natural  to  all  reflecting  beings.  As  the 
older  Romans  distinguished  their  northern  provinces  into 
Cis-Alpine  and  Trans-Alpine,  so  may  we  divide  all  the 
objects  of  human  knowledge  into  those  on  this  side,  and 
those  on  the  other  side  of  the  spontaneous  consciousness  ; 
citra  et  trans  conscientiam  communern.  The  latter  is 
exclusively  the  domain  of  pure  philosophjs  which  is, 
therefore,  properly  entitled  transcendenial,  in  order  to 
discriminate  it  at  once,  both  from  mere  reflection  and  re- 
presentation  on  the  one  hand,  and  on  the  other  from 
those  flights  of  lawless  speculation,  which,  abandoned  by 
all  distinct  consciousness,  because  transgressing  the 
bounds  and  p^jrposes  of  our  intellectual  faculties,  are 
justly  condemned,  as  transcendent,^     The  first  range  of 

*  Tiiis  distinction,  l^etn'eentranscendpntal  and  transcendent,  is  observed 
by  our  eldv-r  divines  and  philosophers,  whenever  they  express  themselves 
^tholdsiimlly.  Dr.  Johnson,  indeed,  has  confounded' the  two  worda  ;  but 
his  own  authorities  do  not  bear  him  out.  Of  this  celebrated  dictionary,  I 
will  venture  to  remark,  once  for  all,  that  I  should  suspect  the  man  of  a 
jiioro.-;;*  disposition,  who  should  speak  of  it  without  respect  and  gratitude, 
as  a  most  'instructive  and  entertaining  booky  and  liitherto,  unfortunately, 
an  indispensable  book:  but  I  confess,  that  I  should  be  surprised  at  hear- 
in;^  ii:om  a  philosophic  and  thorough  scholar,  any  but  very  qualilied^ 
praises  of  it,  as  a  dictionary,  I  am  not  now  alluding  to  the  number  of 
j^cnuine  words  otn-ttcd  ;  Vor  this  i.s,  (and,  perhaps,  to  a  great  extent,) 
"tru^.,  as  jSIr.  Wakefield  has  noticed,  of  our  best  Greek  Lexicons  :  and 
this,  too,  after  the  successive  labours  of  so  many  giants  in  learning.  I 
refnr,  at  present,  both  to  oniissions  and  <  ommissions  of  a  more  important 
nature.  What  these  are,  me  saltern  judice,  will  be  stated  at  full  ui  The 
FiiiiiNn,  re-publiihed  and  completed.  * 


151 

Iiiils,  that  cncirde's  the  scanty  vale  of  human  hfe,  is  the 
Iiorizon  for  the  majority  of  its  inhabitants.  On  its  ridge? 
the  common  sun  is  born  and  departs.  From  tkem  the 
stars  rise,  and  touching  ^/^em  the}^  vanish.  By  the  many, 
even  this  range,  the  natural  limit  and  bulwark  of  the  vale, 
is  but  imperfectly  known.  Its  higher  ascents  are  too 
often  hidden  by  mists  and  clouds  from  uncultivated 
swamps,  which  few  have  courage  or  curiosity  to  pene 
trate.  To  the  multitude  below  these  vapours  appear,  now, 
as  the  dark  haunts  of  tcrri(ic  agents,  on  which  none  ma}^ 
intrude  with  impunity  ;  and  now  all  a-glow,  with  colours 
not  their  own,  they  are  gazed  at  as  the  splendid  palaces 
of  happiness  and  power.  But  in  all  ages  there  have 
been  a  few  who,  measuring  and  sounding  the  rivers  of 
the  vale  at  the  feet  of  their  furthest  inaccessible  falls, 
have  learnt,  that  the  sources  must  be  far  higher  and  far 
inward  ;  a  few,  who  even  in  the  level  streams  have  de- 
tected elements,  which  neither  the  vale  itself  or  the  sur- 
rounding mountains  contained  or  could  supply.  How 
and  whence  to  these  thoughts,   these  strong  probabili- 

T  had  never  heard  of  the  correspondence  betwf»en  WakefieM  and  Fox, 
flU  I  saw  the  account  of  it  this  morning-,  TlHth  Septeniher,  1815,)  iji  the 
Monthly  Review.  I  was  not  a  little  grratified  at  findiniTj  that  Mr.  Wake- 
tield  had  proposed  to  himself  nearly  the  same  plan  for  a  Greek  and  En- 
gl sh  Dictionary,  which  I  liad  formed,  and  hegftn  to  exf^cute,  now  ten 
years  ago.  But  far,  far  more  i^rieved  am  I,  that  he  did  not  hVe  to  conspleat  It. 
I  cannot  but  think  it  a  subject  of  most  serious  reo'ret,  that  the  s-\m^' 
hea\-y  expenditure,  which  is  now  cmplovin^"  in  tho  rcpuhlicntion  of  Ste- 
piiAXus  aug-mented,  had  not  been  applied  to^a  new  Ij'-xicon,  on  a  mor^ 
philojiophical  plan,  with  the  English,  (jerman,  and  French  Synonirnes,  as 
well  as  the  Latin.  In  almost  every  in-^tance,  the  nrecise  individual  mc^in- 
ing  might  be  given  in  an  English  or  (jerman  va  orc(:  whereas,  iu  Latin,  we 
must  too  often  be  coiitented  with  a  mere  general  and  inclusive  term. 
How,  indeed,  can  it  be  otherwise,  wlicn  we  attempt  to  render  the  rno?t 
copious  language  of  the  world,  the  rao^t  admirable  for  the  tineness  of  it«^ 
distinctions,  into  one  of  the  pooievt  and  most  vague  lanji-uages  ?  Espe- 
cially, when  vve  reHect  on  the  comparative  number  of  the  works,  still  ex- 
tant, written  while  the  Greek  and  Latin  were  living  lan«-uage«.  Were  I 
asked,  what  I  deemed  the  greatest  and  most  unmixt  benefit,  which  a 
wealthy  individual,  or  an  association  of  wealthy  individuals,  could  be- 
stow on  their  country  and  on  mankind,  I  should  not  hesitate  to  answer, 
*'  a  philosophical  English  dictionary,  with  the  Greek,  Latin,  German, 
French,  Spanish  and  Italian  synonimes,  and  «»- ith  ccn'responding indexes.'" 
That  the  learned  languages  might  thereby  be  acquired  better,  in  hali"  the 
time,  is  ^ut  a  part,  and'  not  the  most  important  part,  of  the  advantages 
which  would  accrue  from  such  a  work.  O  .'  if  it  should  be  permitted,  by 
providence,  that,  without  detriment  to  freedom'  and  independorsce,  our 
government  might  be  enabled  to  become  more  than  a  committee  for  war 
and  revenue!  There  was  a  time  when  every  thing  was  to  be  done  by 
govemmeat.     Have  we  not llown  ott  to  the  contrary  extreme.'' 


1.'52 

t'ie<,  the  ascertaining  vision,  the  intuitive  kfiowled2;e,  may 
finally  supervene,  can  be  learnt  only  by  the  fact.  1 
niiii'ht  oppose  to  the  question  the  words  with  which 
Flotinus*  supposes  nature  to  answer  a  similar  difficulty. 
*'  Should  any  one  interrogate  her  how  she  works,  if  gra- 
ciously she  vouchsafe  to  listen  and  speak,  she  will  replj-, 
it  behooves  thee  not  to  disquiet  me  with  interrogatories, 
but  to  understand  in  silence,  even  as  I  am  silent,  and 
work  witliont  words." 

Likewise,  in  the  iifth  book  of  the  fifth  Ennead,  speak- 
ing of  the  highest  and  intuitive  knowledge  as  distinguish- 
ed from  t!ie  discursive,  or,  in  the  language  of  Wordsworth^ 

''  The  vision  and  the  faculty  divine  ;-' 

he  says  :  *'  it  is  not  lavvful  to  inquire  from  w- hence  it 
sprang,  as  if  it  were  a  thing  subject  to  place  and  motioa, 
for  it  neither  approached  hither,  nor  again  departs  from 
hence  to  some  other  place  ;  but  it  either  appears  to  us, 
or  it  does  not  appear.  So  that  we  ought  not  to  pursue 
it  with  a  view  of  detecting  its  secret  source,  but  to  watch 
in  quiet  till  it  suddenly  shines  upon  us  ;  preparing  our- 
selves for  the  blessed  spectacle,  as  the  eye  waits  patient- 
ly for  the  rising  sun."  They,  and  they  only,  can  acquire 
the  philosophic  imagination,  the  sacred  power  of  self-in- 
tuition, who,  within  themselves,  can  interpret  and  under- 
stand the  symbol,  that  the  wings  of  the  air-sylph  are 
forming  within  the  skin  of  the  caterpillar;  those  only, 
who  feel  in  their  own  spirits,  the  same  instinct  which  im- 
pels the  crysalis  of  the  horned  fly  to  leave  room  in  its  invo- 
lucrum  for  antennae  yet  to  come.     They  know  and  fee>, 

*  Ennead  iii.  1,  8.  c.  3.  The  force  of  the  Greek  crvvnvai  is  imperfectly 
i'xpressed  by  '*  understand  :"  our  own  idiomatic  phrase  "  to  go  along  nUTi 
:.ne,"  comes  nearest  to  it.  The  passa^ce  that  follows,  full  of  profound  sens-?, 
appears  to  me  evidently  corrupt ;  and,  in  fact,  no  writer  more  wants,  better 
deserves,  or  is  less  likely  to  obtain,  a  new  and  more  correct  edition: — t1  5v 
c-jiitval ;  8ti  to  7f vc|i£vov  jjj  S-^a^ia  i^jv,  criwrrricrij  {mallem,  ^iaiia,  t^S  o-icottco- 
oris,)  xa\  (picrsi  7Evo;ifvov  Sri'pnfia  xa\  /ioi  yEvcpLivn  U  9-£wpi'af  lU  w'5i',  rfv  (pCciv 
5x£'v  (piAo^ci^ova  vTrapmi  {mallem^  >idi  \io\  -ht  7£vojiivn  \h  I>fx'piaj  doryij  to5iJ.) 
**  what  then  ^re  we  to  understand  ?  That  whatever  is  produced  is  an  in- 
tuition, I  silent ;  and  that,  which  is  thus  generated,  is  by  its  nature  a  theo- 
rem, or  foi-m  of  contemplation  ;  and  the" birth,  which  results  to  me  iroia 
this  contemplation,  attains  to  have  a  contemplative  nature."  So  Synesi- 
us  ;  D.b\i  »pa,  Appina  To\d.  The  after  comparison  of  the  process  of  the 
natura  naturans  with  thut  of  the  geometrician  ^3  drawn  iroiii  the  vei-^ 
heart  of  philosophy. 


153 

that  the  potential  works  ii^,  them,  even  as  the  actual 
works  on  them  !  In  short,  all  the  organs  of  sense  are 
framed  for  a  corresponding  world  of  sense  ;  and  we  have 
it.  All  the  organs  of  spirit  are  framed  for  a  correspond- 
ent world  of  spirit :  tho'  the  latter  organs  are  not  devel- 
oped in  all  alike.  But  they  exist  in  all,  and  their  first 
appearance  discloses  itself  in  the  moral  being.  How 
else  could  it  be,  that  even  worldlings,  not  wholly  debas- 
ed, will  contemplate  the  man  of  simple  and  disinterested 
goodness  with  contradictory  feelings  of  pity  and  respect  ? 
"  Poor  man  !  he  is  not  made  for  this  world."  Oh  1 
herein  they  utter  a  prophecy  of  universal  fulfilment ;  for 
man  must  either  rise  or  sink. 

It  is  the  essential  mark  of  the  true  philosopher  to  rest 
satisfied  with  no  imperfect  light,  as  long  as  the  impossi- 
bility of  attaining  a  fuller  knowledge  has  not  been  demon- 
strated. That  the  common  consciousness  itself  will  fur- 
nish proofs  by  its  own  direction,  that  it  is  connected  with 
master-currents  below  the  surface,  I  shall  merely  assume 
as  a  postulate  pro  tempore.  This  having  been  granted, 
though  but  in  expectation  of  the  argument,  I  can  safely 
deduce  from  it  the  equal  truth  of  my  former  assertion, 
that  philosophy  cannot  be  intelligible  to  all,  even  of  the 
most  learned  and  cultivated  classes.  A  system,  the  first 
principle  of  which  it  is  to  render  the  mind  intuitive  of 
the  spiritual  in  man,  (i.  e.  of  that  which  lies  on  the  other 
side  of  our  natural  consciousness,)  must  needs  have  a 
great  obscurity  for  those  who  have  never  disciplined  and 
strengthened  this  ulterior  consciousness.  It  must,  in  truth., 
be  a  land  of  darkness,  a  perfect  .^nte-Gosheri,  for  men 
to  whom  the  noblest  treasures  of  their  own  being 
are  reported  only  through  the  imperfect  translation 
of  lifeless  and  sightless  notions :  perhaps,  in  great  part, 
through  words  which  are  but  the  shadows  of  notions  ; 
even  as  the  notional  understanding  itself,  is  but  the  sha- 
dowy abstraction  of  living  and  actual  truth.  On  the  im- 
mediate, which  dwells  in  every  man,  and  on  the  original 
intuition,  or  absolute  afiirmation  of  it>  (which  is  likewise 
in  every  man,,  but  does  not  in  every  man  rise  into  con- 
sciousness,)  all  the  certainty  of  our  knowledge  depends  ; 
and  this  becomes  intelligible  to  no  man  by  the  ministeiy  of 
mere  words  from  without.  The  medium,  by  which  spi- 
rits understand  each  other,  is  not  the  surroanding  air  j 


151 

h-Oi  the  freedom  ^vhich  tliey  po.ssess  in  common,  as  the 
common  ethereal  element  of  their  being,  the  tremulous 
reciprocations  of  which  propagate  themselves  even  to 
the  inmost  of  the  soul.  Where  the  spirit  of  a  man  is 
noi  filled,  with  the  consciousness  of  freedom,  (were  it  only 
from  its  restlessness,  as  of  one  still  struggling  in  bondage,) 
all  spiritual  intercourse  is  interrupted,  not  only  with 
others,  but  even  with  himself  No  wonder,  then,  that 
he  remains  incomprehensible  to  himself  as  well  as  to 
others.  No  wonder,  that  in  the  fearful  desert  of  his 
consciousness,  he  wearies  himself  out  with  empty  words, 
to  which  no  friendly  echo  answers,  either  from  his  own 
heart,  or  the  heart  of  a  fellow  being;  or  bewilders  him- 
self in  the  pursuit  of  woz'zo?2aZ  phantoms,  the  mere  refrac- 
tions from  unseen  and  distant  truths,  through  the  distort- 
ing medium  of  his  own  unenlivened  and  stagnant  under- 
standing !  To  remain  unintelligible  to  such  a  mind,  ex- 
clainjs  Schelling,  on  a  like  occasion,  is  honour  and  a  good 
name  before  God  and  man. 

The  history  of  philosophy,  (the  same  writer  observes,) 
contains  instances  of  systems  which,  for  successive  gene- 
rations, have  remained  enrgm-L^.tic.  Such  he  deems  the 
system  of  Leibnitz,  (whom  another  writer,  rashly  1  think, 
and  invidiously,)  extols  as  the  only  philosopher  who  was 
himself  deeply  convinced  of  his  own  doctrines.  As  hither- 
to interpreted,  however,  they  have  not  produced  the  ef- 
fect which  Leibnitz  himself,  in  a  most  instructive  passage, 
Jescribes  as  the  criterion  of  a  true  philosophy  ;  namely^ 
ihat  it  would  at  once  explain  and  collect  the  fragments 
of  truth  scattered  through  systems  apparently  the  most  in- 
congruous. The  truth,  says  he,  is  diffused  more  widely 
than  is  commonly  believed  ;  but  it  is  often  painted,  yet 
oftener  masked,  and  is  sometimes  mutilated,  and  some- 
times, alas !  in  close  alliance  with  mischievous  errors. 
The  deeper,  however,  we  penetrate  into  the  ground  of 
tilings,  the  more  truth  we  discover  in  the  doctrines  of  the 
■greater  number  of  the  philosophical  sects.  The  want  of 
,^uhstantl^l  reality  in  the  objects  of  the  senses,  according 
to  the  sceptics  ;  the  harmonies  or  numbers,  the  proto- 
fypes  and  ideas,  to  which  the  Pythagoreans  and  Platonists 
^jduced  all  things  j  the  q^e  and  ali^  of  Fa.rmeiif'ies  a^d 


155 

Plotinus,  \rithout  Splnozism  ;^  the  necessary  corinectioii 
of  things  according  to  the  Stoics,  reconcilable  with  the 
spontaneity  of  the  other  schools  ;  the  vital  philosophy  of 
the  Cabalists  and  Hermetists,  who  assumed  the  univer- 
sality of  sensation  ;  the  substantial  forms  and  entelechies 
of  Aristotle  and  the  schoolmen,  together  with  the  me- 
chanical solution  of  all  particular  phenomena  according 
to  Democritus  and  the  recent  philosophers  ;  all  these  we 
shall  find  unfted  in  one  perspective  central  point,  which 
shows  regularity  and  a  coincidence  of  all  the  parts  in 
the  very  object  which,  from  every  other  point  of  view, 
must  appear  confused  and  distorted.  The  spirit  of  see* 
tarianism  has  been  hitherto  our  fault,  and  the  cause  of 
our  failures.  We  have  imprisoned  our  own  conceptions  by 
the  lines  which  we  have  drawn  in  order  to  exclude  the 
conceptions  of  others.     J'ai  trouve  que  la  plupart  des 

*  This  is  happily  effected  in  three  Hnes  by  Svnesics,  in  his  Fourth 
Hymn : 

'Ev  nai  ITttiTfl — (taken  by  itself)  si  Spinosism. 
'Ev  6'  'Attclvtcov — a  mere  anima  Mimdi 
'Ev  T£  TTjo  TTOvTcov — is  mechanical  Theism. 

But  unite  all  three,  and  the  result  is  the  Theism  of  St.  Paul  and  Chris- 
tianity. 

Syiiesius  was  censured  for  his  doctrine  of  the  pre-existence  of  the  Soul; 
but' never,  that  I  can  find,  arraigned  or  deemed  heretical  for  his  Pan- 
theism, though  neither  Giordano  Bruno,  or  Jacob  Behmen,  ever  avowed 
it  more  broadly 

Mtjsaj  5i  iVoo?, 
Ttt  Tf  xal  Ttt  Aiyti, 
B63-OV  appriTov 
Aji^pixop^uwv. 
Xu  TO  Ti xTov  tpuy,, 

Su  TO   TlXT0|i£V0V* 
Ei)  TO  <pCOTt'{lOV, 

So  TO  KaiXTrojxSvov* 
Si)  TO  (paivo^-vov, 

Xu  TO   X^UTTTC^iJVOV 

lotais  ctvyaU. 
'Ev  xa:  TravTO, 
Ev  xay  faUTO, 
Koi  5itt  TrdvTCOv. 

Pantheism  is,  fherefore,  not  necessarily  irreligious  or  heretical ;  though 
it  may  be  taught  atheistically.  Thu.s,  Spinoza  would  agree  with  Sy]jesius 
in  calling  God  <J)uo-is  tv  ]No£?}ii,the  Nature  in  Intelligences  ;  but  ho  couhi 
not  subscribe  to  the  preceding^  NoDj  xdi  No£pcs,  i.  e.  Himself  Intelligence 
and  intelligent. 

In  this  biographical  sketch  of  my  literary  life,  I  may  be  excused,  if  I 
mention  here,  that  I  had  translated  the  eight  Hymns  of  Synesius  fronr 
the  Greek  into  English  AnacreODtics  before  my  15th  yeari 


156 

sectos  ont  raison  dans  une   bonne  partie  de  ce   qu'elles 
avancent,  mais  non  pas  en  ce  qu'elles  nient 

A  system  which  aims  to  deduce  the  memory  with  all 
the  other  functions  of  intelligence,  must,  of  course,  place 
its  first  position  from  beyond  the  memory,  and  anterior 
to  it,  otherwise  the  principle  of  solution  would  be  itselC 
a  part  of  the  problem  to  be  solved.  Such  a  position, 
therefore,  must,  in  the  first  instance,  be  demanded,  and 
the  first  question  will  be,  by  what  right  is  it  demanded  ? 
On  this  account  I  think  it  expedient  to  make  some  pre- 
liminary remarks  on  the  introduction  of  Postulates  in 
philosophy.  The  word  postulate  is  borrowed  from  the 
science  of  mathematics.  (See  Schell.  abhandl  zur  Er- 
}auter,  des  id  der  Wissenschaftslehre.)  In  geometry  the 
primary  construction  is  not  demonstrated,  but  postulated. 
This  first  and  most  simple  construction  in  space,  is  the 
point  in  motion,  or  the  line.  Whether  the  point  is  moved 
in  one  and  the  same  direction,  or  whether  its  direction  is 
continually  changed,  remains  as  yet  undetermined.  But 
if  the  direction  of  the  point  have  been  determined,  it  is 
fither  by  a  point  without  it,  and  then  there  arises  the 
strait  line  which  incloses  no  space  ;  or  the  direction  of 
the  point  is  not  determined  by  a  point  without  it,  and 
then  it  must  flow  back  again  on  itself;  that  is,  there  arises 
a  cyclical  line,  which  does  inclose  a  space.  If  the  strait 
line  be  assumed  as  the  positive,  the  cyclical  is  then  the* 
negation  of  the  strait.  It  is  a  line  which  at  no  point 
strikes  out  into  the  strait,  but  changes  its  direction  con- 
tinuously. But  if  the  primary  line  be  conceived  as  un- 
determined, and  the  strait  line  as  determined  throughout, 
then  the  cyclical  is  the  third,  compounded  of  both.  It  is 
at  once  undetermined  and  determined  ;  undetermined 
through  any  point  without,  and  determined  through  itself. 
Geometry,  therefore,  supplies  philosophy  with  the  exam- 
ple of  a  primary  intuition,  from  which  every  science  that 
lays  claim  to  evidence  must  take  its  commencement  The 
mathematician  does  not  begin  with  a  demonstrable  propo- 
sition, but  with  an  intuition,  a  practical  idea. 

But  here  an  important  distinction  presents  itself.  Phi- 
losophy is  employed  on  objects  of  the  inner  sense,  and 
cannot,  like  geometry,  appropriate  to  every  construction 
a  correspondent  outz^ard  intuition.  Nevertheless,  philo- 
sophy, if  it  is  to  arrive  at  evidence,  must  proceed  from 


157 

t-he  most  originrJ  construction,  and  the  question  then  i.^, 
what  is  the  most  original  construction  or  tirst  productive 
act  for  the  inner  sense.  The  answer  to  this  question 
depends  on  the  direction  wliich  is  given  to  the  inner 
SENSE.  But  in  philosophy  the  inner  sense  cannot  have 
its  direction  determined  by  any  outward  object.  To  the 
original  construction  of  the  line,  I  can  be  compelled  by  a 
line  drawn  before  me  on  the  slate  or  on  sand.  The 
stroke  thus  drawn  is  indeed  not  the  line  itself,  but 
only  the  image  or  picture  of  the  line.  It  is  not  from  it 
that  we  first  learn  to  know  the  line  ;  but,  on  the  contra- 
ry, we  bring  this  stroke  to  the  original  line,  gene- 
rated by  the  act  of  the  imagination  ;  otherwise  we  could 
not  define  it  as  without  breadth  or  thickness.  Still,  how- 
ever,  this  stroke  is  the  sensuous  image  of  the  original  or 
ideal  line,  and  an  efficient  mean  to  excite  every  imagina- 
tion to  the  intuition  of  it. 

It  is  demanded  then,  whether  there  be  found  any  means 
in  philosophy  to  determine  the  direction  of  the  inner 
sense,  as  in  mathematics  it  is  determinable  by  its  specific 
image  or  outward  picture.  Now,  the  inner  sense  has  its 
direction  determined  for  the  greater  part  only  by  an  act 
of  freedom.  One  man's  consciousness  extends  only  to 
the  pleasant  or  unpleasant  sensations  caused  in  him  by 
external  impressions  ;  another  enlarges  his  inner  sense  to 
a  consciousness  of  forms  and  quantity  ;  a  third,  in  addition 
to  the  image,  is  conscious  of  the  conception  or  notion  of 
the  thing  ;  a  fourth  attains  to  a  notion  of  notions — 
he  reflects  on  his  own  reflections  ;  and  thus  we  may 
say,  without  impropriety,  that  the  one  possesses  more 
or  less  inner  sense  than  the  other.  This  more  or  less 
betrays  already  that  philosophy,  in  its  principles,  must 
have  a  practical  or  moral,  as  well  as  a  theoretical  or 
speculative  side.  This  difference  in  degree  does  not  exist 
in  the  mathematics.  Socrates  in  Plato  shows,  that  an 
ignorant  slave  may  be  brought  to  understand,  and,  of  him- 
self, to  solve  the  most  geometrical  problem.  Socrate*s 
drew  the  figures  for  the  slave  in  the  sand.  The  disciples 
of  the  critical  philosophy  could  likewise  (as  was  indeed 
actually  done  by  La  Forge  and  some  other  followers  of 
Des  Cartes)  represent  the  origin  of  our  represent^itions 
in  copper-plates  ;  but  no  one  has  yet  attempted  it,  and  it 
would  be  utterly  useless,     To  an  Esquimaux  or  New 


158 

Zealander  our  most  popular  philosophy  would  be  whol- 
ly uiiintelligible  ;  for  the  sense,  the  inward  organ,  is 
not  yet  born  in  him.  So  is  there  many  a  one  among  us, 
yes,  and  some  who  think  themselves  philosophers  too,  to 
whom  the  philosophic  organ  is  entirely  wanting.  To  such 
a  man,  philosophy  is  a  mere  play  of  words  and  notions, 
like  a  theory  of  music  to  the  deaf,  or  like  the  geometry 
of  light  to  the  blind.  The  connection  of  the  parts  and 
their  logical  dependencies  may  be  seen  and  remembered  , 
but  the  whole  is  groundless  and  hollow,  unsustained  by 
living  coiitact,  unaccompanied  with  any  realizing  intuitioa 
which  exists  by,  and  in  the  act  that  ailirms  its  existence, 
which  is  known,  because  it  is,  and  is,  because  it  is  known. 
The  words  of  Flotinus,  in  the  assumed  person  of  natui^, 
holds  true  of  the  philosophic  energy.     B  ^r-o^Sv  |i«  ^8C:^r)^Q 

roiti,  a)(77rcf  oi  rcco^elfaiSri'-o^avlej  y^a-ljiic-iv.  aU'  Im«  ^^  T'^cJ^bcttij,  ^f cop ijcrns  d:^ 

I'PiYavlai  clI  tlov  cu-^alcv  ^cd^^at.  With  me  the  act  of  contempla- 
tion makes  the  thing  contemplated,  as  the  geometricians 
contemplating  describe  lines  corespondent  ;  but  I  not  de- 
scribing lines,  but  simply  contemplating,  the  representa- 
tive forms  of  things  rise  up  into  existence. 

The  postulate  of  philosophy,  and,  at  the  same  time,  the 
test  of  philosophic  capacity,  is  no  other  thaa  the  heaven- 
descended  KNOW  THYSELF  !  (^E  Cfclo  clescendit,  Fvajei  ceavloV^ 
and  this  at  once  practicall}^  and  speculatively.  For,  as 
philosophy  is  neither  a  science  of  the  reason  or  under- 
standing only,  nor  merely  a  science  of  morals,jbut  the  sci- 
ence of  BEING  altogether,  its  primary  ground  can  be  nei- 
ther merely  speculative  or  merely  practical,  but  both  in 
one.  All  knowledge  rests  on  the  coincidence  of  an  ob- 
ject  with  a  subject.  (3Iy  readers  have  been  warned  in  a 
former  chapter,  that  for  their  convenience  as  well  as  the 
writer's,  the  term,  subject,  is  used  b}^  me  in  its  scho- 
lastic sense  as  equivalent  to  mind  or  sentient  being,  and 
as  the  necessary  correlative  of  object  or  guicquid  ohjici- 
tur  jnenti.)  For  we  can  knorv  that  only  which  is  true  ;  and 
the  truth  is  universally  placed  in  the  coincidence  of  the 
thought  with  the  thing,  of  the  representation  with  the  ob- 
ject represented. 

Now  the  sum  of  all  that  is  merely  objective,  we  will 
henceforth  call  natutxE,  confining  the  term  to  its  passive 
and  material  sense,  as  comprising  all  the  pha^nomena  by 
which  its  existence  is  made  known  to  us.     On  the  olh^ 


150 

hand,  the  sum  of  all  that  is  subjective,  we  may  compr-e- 
hend  in  the  name  of  the  self  or  intelligence.  Both 
conceptions  are  in  necessary  antithesis.  Intelligence  is 
conceived  of,  as  exclusively  representative,  nature  as  ex- 
clusively represented  ;  the  one  as  conscious,  the  other  as 
without  consciousness.  Now,  in  all  acts  of  positive  know- 
ledge, there  is  required  a  reciprocal  concurrence  of  both, 
namely,  of  the  conscious  being,  and  of  that  which  is,  in 
itself,  unconscious.  Our  problem  is  to  explain  this  con- 
currence, its  possibility,  and  its  necessity. 

During  the  act  of  knowledge  itself,  the  objective  and 
subjective  are  so  instantly  united,  that  we  cannot  deter- 
mine to  which  of  the  two  the  priority  belongs.  There 
is  here  no  first,  and  no  second  ;  both  are  coinstantaneous 
and  one.  While  I  am  attempting  to  explain  this  intimate 
coalition,  I  must  suppose  it  dissolved.  I  must  necessari- 
ly set  out  from  the  one,  to  which,  therefore,  I  give  hy- 
pothetical antecedence,  in  order  to  arrive  at  the  other. 
But,  as  there  are  but  two  factors  or  eleinents  in  the  prob- 
lem, subject  and  object,  and  as  it  is  left  indeterminate  from 
which  of  them  I  should  commence,  there  are  two  cases 
equally  possible. 

1 .  Either  the  Objective  is  taken  as  the  first,  a^d 
then  we  have  to  account  for  the  supervention  of  tii^ 
Subjective,  v/hich  coalesces  with  it. 

1'he  notion  of  the  subjective  is  not  contained  in  the 
notion  of  the  objective.  On  the  contrary,  they  mutually 
exclude  each  other.  The  subjective,  therefore,  must  su- 
pervene to  the  objective.  The  conception  of  nature 
does  not  apparently  involve  the  co-presence  of  an  intel- 
ligence making  an  ideal  duplicate  of  it,  i.  e.  representing 
it.  'J'his  desk,  for  instance,  would  (according  to  our  na- 
tural notions)  be,  though  there  should  exist  no  sentient 
being  to  look  at  it.  I'his  then  is  the  problem  of  natural 
philosophy  It  assumes  the  objective  or  unconscious  na- 
ture as  the  first,  and  has,  tlierefore,  to  explain  how  intel- 
ligence can  supervene  to  it,  or  how  itself  can  grow  into 
intelligence.  If  it  should  appear  that  all  enlightened 
naturalists,  without  having  distinctly  proposed  the  problem 
to  themselves,  have  yet  constantly  moved  in  the  line  of 
its  solution,  it  must  afford  a  strong  presumption  that  the 
problem  itself  is  founded  in  nature.  For  if  all  knowledge 
has,  as  it  were,  two  poles  reciprocally  required  and  pre- 


160 

supposed,  all  sciences  must  proceed  from  the  one  or  the 
other,  and  must  tend  toward  jhe  opposite  as  far  as  the 
equatorial  point  in  which  both  are  reconciled,  and  be- 
come identical.  The  necessary  tendence,  therefore, 
of  all  natural  philo?ophy,  i?  from  nature  to  intelligence  ; 
and  this,  and  no  other,  is  the  true  ground  and  occasion  of 
tlie  instinctive  striving  to  introduce  theory  into  our  views 
of  natural  pha^nomena.  The  highest  perfection  of  na- 
tural philosophy  would  consist  in  the  perfect  spiritualiza- 
tion  of  all  the  laws  of  nature  into  laws  of  intuition  and 
intellect.  The  phcenomena  {the  material)  must  wholly 
disappear,  and  the  laws  alone  {the  formal)  must  remain. 
Thence  it  comes,  that  in  nature  itself,  the  more  the  prin- 
ciple of  law  breaks  forth,  the  more  does  the  husk  drop 
off,  the  phienomena  themselves  become  more  spiritual,  and 
at  length  cease  altogether  in  our  consciousness.  The 
optical  ph.Tnomena,  are  but  a  geometry,  the  lines  of 
which  are  drawn  by  light,  and  the  materiality  of  this 
light  itself  has  already  become  matter  of  doubt.  In  the 
appearances  of  magnetism,  all  trace  of  matter  is  lost,  and, 
of  the  pha^nomena  of  gravitation,  which,  not  a  few  among 
the  most  illustrious  New^tonians,  have  declared  no  other- 
wise comprehensible  than  as  an  immediate  spiritual  in- 
fluence, there  remains  nothing  but  its  law,  the  execution 
of  whi(th,  on  a  vast  scale,  is  the  mechanism  of  the  heaven- 
ly motions.  The  theory  of  natural  philosophy  would 
then  be  completed  ;  when  all  nature  was  demonstrated 
to  be  identical  in  essence  with  that  which,  in  its  highest 
known  power,  exists  in  man  as  an  intelligence,  and  self- 
consciousness  ;  when  the  heavens  and  the  earth  shall  de- 
clare, not  only  the  power  of  their  maker,  but  the  glory 
and  the  presence  of  their  God,  even  as  he  appeared  to 
the  great  prophet  during  the  vision  of  the  mount  in  the 
skirts  of  his  divinity. 

This  may  suffice  to  show,  that  even  natural  science, 
which  commences  with  the  material  phaenomenon  as  the 
reality  and  substance  of  things  existing,  does  yet,  by  the 
necessity  of  theorizing,  unconsciously,  and,  as  it  were, 
instinctively,  end  in  nature  as  an  intelligence  ;  and  by 
this  tendency,  the  science  of  nature  becomes  finally  na- 
tural philosophy,  the  one  of  the  two  poles  of  fundamen- 
tal science. 

2.  Or  the  subjective  .  is  taken  as  the  first,  and, 


i6i 

THE  PROBLEM  TITEN  IS,    HOW  THERE  StTPERVENES    TO  JT  A 
COINCIDENT   OBJECTIVE. 

In  the  pursuit  of  these  sciences,  our  success  in  each, 
depends  on  an  austere  and  faithful  adherence  to  its  own 
principles,  with  a  careful  separation  and  exclusion  of 
those,  which  appertain  to  the  opposite  science.  As  the 
n-Jtural  philosopher,  who  directs  his  views  to  the  objec- 
tive, avoids,  above  all  things,  the  intermixture  of  the  sub- 
jective in  his  knowledge,  as  for  instance,  arbitrary  sup- 
positions or  rather  suffictions,  occult  qualities,  spiritual 
agents,  and  the  substitution  of  final  for  efficient  causes  ; 
so  on  the  other  hand,  the  transcendental  or  intelligential 
philosopher,  is  equally  anxious  to  preclude  all  interpo- 
lation of  the  objective  into  the  subjective  principles  of 
his  science  ;  as,  for  instance,  the  assumption  of  impresses 
or  configurations  in  the  brain,  correspondent  to  miniature 
pictures  on  the  retina  painted  by  rays  of  light  from  sup- 
posed originals,  which  are  not  the  immediate  and  real 
objects  of  vision,  but  deductions  from  it,  for  the  purposes 
of  explanation.  This  purification  of  the  mind  is  effected 
by  an  absolute  and  scientific  scepticism  to  w^hich  the  mind 
voluntarily  determines  itself  for  the  specific  purpose  of  fu- 
ture certainty.  Des  Cartes  who  (in  bis  meditations) 
himself  first,  at  least  of  the  moderns,  gave  a  beautiful 
example  of  this  voluntary  doubt,  this  self-determined  in- 
determination,  happily  expresses  its  utter  difiference  from 
the  scepticism  of  vanity  or  irreligion  :  Nee  tamen  in  eo 
scepticos  imitabar,  qui  dubitant  tantum  ut  dubitent,  et 
preter  incertitudinem  ipsam  nihil  quaerunt.  Nam  contra 
totus  in  eo  eram  ut  aliquid  certi  reperirem. — Des  Cartes, 
de  Methodo,  Nor,  is  it  less  distinct  in  its  motives  and 
final  aim,  than  in  its  proper  objects,  which  are  not,  as  in 
ordinary  scepticism,  the  prejudices  of  education  and  cir- 
cumstance, but  those  original  and  innate  prejudices, 
which  nature  herself  has  planted  in  all  men,  and  which, 
to  all  but  the  philosopher,  are  the  first  principles  of  know- 
ledge, and  the  final  test  of  truth. 

Nowr  these  essential  prejudices  are  all  reducible  to 
the  one  fundamental  presumption,  that  THER^i  exist 
THINGS  WITHOUT  US.  As  thls  ou  the  one  hand  originates, 
neither  in  grounds  or  arguments,  and  yet  on  the  other 
hand  remains  proof  against  all  attempts  to  remove  it  by 
grounds  or  arguments  (naturam  furca  expellas  tameitt 
Vol.  L  14 


162 

usque  redihit ;)  on  the  one  hand  lays  claim  to  immediate 
certainty  as  a  position  at  once  indemonstrable  and  irre- 
sistible, and  yet  on  the  other  hand,  inasmuch  as  it  refers 
to  something  essentially  different  from  ourselves,  nay, 
even  in  opposition  to  ourselves,  leaves  it  inconceivable 
how  it  could  possibly  become  a  part  of  our  immediate 
consciousness  ;  (in  other  words,  how  that,  which  ex  hy- 
pothesi  is  and  continues  to  be  extrinsic  and  alien  to  our 
being,  should  become  a  modification  of  our  being,)  the 
philosopher,  therefore,  compels  himself  to  treat  this 
faith  as  nothing  more  than  a  prejudice,  innate  indeed 
and  connatural,  but  still  a  prejudice. 

The  other  position,  which  not  only  claims,  but  neces- 
sitates the  admission  of  its  immediate  certainty,  equally 
for  the  scientific  reason  of  the  philosopher  as  for  the 
common  sense  of  mankind  at  large,  namely,  I  am,  can- 
not so  properly  be  entitled  a  prejudice.  It  is  ground- 
less, indeed,  but  then  in  the  very  idea  it  precludes  all 
ground,  and  separated  from  the  immediate  conscious- 
ness, loses  its  whole  sense  and  import.  It  is  groundless  ; 
but  only  because  it  is  itself  the  ground  of  all  other  cer- 
tainty. Now  the  apparent  contradiction,  that  the  form- 
er position,  namely,  the  existence  of  things  without  us, 
which  from  its  nature  cannot  be  immediately  certain, 
should  be  received  as  blindly  and  as  independently  of 
all  grounds  as  the  existence  of  our  own  being,  the  tran- 
scendental philosopher  can  solve  only  by  the  supposi- 
tion, that  the  former  is  unconsciously  involved  in  the 
latter  ;  that  it  is  not  only  coherent  but  identical,  and  one 
and  the  same  thing  with  our  own  immediate  self  con- 
sciousness. To  demonstrate  this  identity,  is  the  office 
and  object  of  his  philosophy. 

If  it  be  said,  that  this  is  Idealism,  let  it  be  remember- 
ed, th'dt  it  is  only  so  far  idealism  as  it  is  at  the  same 
time,  and  on  that  very  account,  the  truest  and  most  bind- 
ing realism.  For  wherein  does  the  realism  of  mankind 
properly  consist  ?  In  the  assertion,  that  there  exists  a 
something  without  them,  what,  or  how,  or  where,  they 
know  not,  which  occasions  the  objects  of  their  percep- 
tion ?  Oh  no  !  This  is  neither  connatural  or  universal. 
It  is  what  a  few  have  taught  and  learnt  in  the  schools, 
and  which  the  many  repeat  without  asking  themselves 
cohcernins;  their  own  meaning.     The  reaUsm  common 


163 

to  all  mankind  is  far  elder,  and  lies  infinitely  deeper  than 
this  hypothetical  explanation  of  the  origin  of  our  per- 
ceptions,an  explanation  skimmed  from  the  mere  surface 
of  mechanical  philosophy.  It  Is  the  table  itself,  which 
the  man  of  common  sense  beUeves  himself  to  see,  not 
the  phantom  of  a  table,  from  which  he  may  argumenta- 
tively  deduce  the  reahty  of  a  table,  which  he  does  not 
see.  If  to  destroy  the  reality  of  all  that  we  actually  be- 
hold, be  ideaUsm,  what  can  be  more  egregiously  so, 
than  the  system  of  modern  metaphysics,  which  banishes 
us  to  a  land  of  shadows,  surrounds  us  with  apparitions, 
and  distinguishes  truth  from  illusion  only  by  the  majori- 
ty of  those  who  dream  the  same  dream  ?  ''/asserted 
that  the  world  was  mad,"  exclaimed  poor  Lee,  "  and 
the  world  said,  that  I  was  mad,  and,  confound  them,  they 
outvoted  me." 

It  is  to  the  true  and  original  realism,  that  I  would  di- 
rect the  attention.  This  believes  and  requires  neither 
more  nor  less,  than  that  the  object  which  it  beholds  or 
presents  to  itself,  is  the  real  and  very  object.  In  this 
sense,  however  much  we  may  strive  against  it,  we  are 
ail  collectively  born  idealists,  and  therefore,  and  only 
therefore,  are  we  at  the  same  time  realists.  But  of  this 
the  philosophers  of  the  schools  know  nothing,  or  despise 
the  faith  as  the  prejudice  of  the  ignorant  vulgar,  because 
they  live  and  move  in  a  crowd  of  phrases  and  notions 
from  which  human  nature  has  long  ago  vanished.  Oh, 
ye  that  reverence  yourselves,  and  walk  humbly  with  the 
divinity  in  your  own  hearts,  ye  are  worthy  of  a  better 
philosophy  !  Let  the  dead  bury  the  dead,  but  do  you 
preserve  your  human  nature,  the  depth  of  which  was 
never  yet  fathomed  by  a  philosophy  made  up  of  notions 
and  mere  logical  entities. 

In  the  third  treatise  of  my  Logosophia,  announced  at 
the  end  of  this  volume,  I  shall  give  (deo  volente)  the 
demonstrations  and  constructions  of  the  Dynamic  Philoso- 
phy scientifically  arranged.  It  is,  according  to  my  con- 
viction, no  other  than  the  system  of  Pythagoras  and  of 
Plato  revived  and  purified  from  impure  mixtures.  Doc- 
trina  per  tot  manus  tradita  tandem  iti  Vappam  desiit.  The 
science  of  arithmetic  furnishes  instances,  that  a  rule 
may  be  useful  in  practical  application,  and  for  the  par- 
ticular purpose  may  be  sujSiciently  authenticated  by  the 


164 

resulf,  before  it  has  itself  been  fully  demonstrated.  It 
is  enough,  if  only  it  be  rendered  intelligible.  This  will, 
I  trust,  have  been  effected  in  the  following  Theses,  for 
those  of  my  readers  who  are  willing  to  accompany  me 
through  the  following  Chapter,  in  which  the  results  will 
be  apphed  to  the  deduction  of  the  imagination,  and  with 
it  the  principles  of  production  and  of  genial  criticism  in 
the  fine  arts. 

Thesis  I. — Truth  is  correlative  to  being.  Knowledge 
without  a  correspondent  reality  is  no  knowledge  ;  if  we 
know,  there  must  be  somewhat  known  by  us.  To  know 
is  in  its  very  essence  a  verb  active, 

Thesis  II. — All  truth  is  either  mediate,  that  is,  de- 
rived from  some  other  truth  or  truths  ;  or  immediate 
and  original.  The  latter  is  absolute,  and  its  formula  A. 
A.  ;  the  former  is  of  dependent  or  conditional  certainty, 
and  represented  in  the  formula  B.  A.  The  certainty, 
which  inheres  in  A,  is  attributable  to  B. 

Scholium.  A  chain  without  a  staple,  from  which  all 
the  links  derived  their  stability,  or  a  series  without  a 
first,  has  been  not  inaptly  allegorized,  as  a  string  of 
blind  men,  each  holding  the  skirt  of  the  man  before  him, 
reaching  far  out  of  sight,  but  all  moving  without  the  least 
deviation  in  one  strait  line.  It  would  be  naturally  taken 
for  granted,  that  there  was  a  guide  at  the  head  of  the  file; 
\vhat  if  it  were  answered.  No  !  sir,  the  men  are  without 
number,  and  infinite  blindness  supplies  the  place  of 
sight  ? 

Equally  inconceivahle  is  a  cycle  of  equal  truths,  with- 
out a  common  and  central  principle,  which  prescribes  to 
each  its  proper  sphere  in  the  system  of  science.  That 
the  absurdity  does  not  so  immediately  strike  us,  that  it 
does  not  seem  equally  unimaginable,  is  owing  to  a  sur- 
reptitious act  of  the  imagination,  which,  instinctively  and 
without  our  noticing  the  same,  not  only  fills  at  the  inter- 
vening spaces,  and  contemplates  the  cycle,  (of  B.  C.  D. 
E.  F.  &c.)  as  a  continuous  circle  (A.)  giving  to  all,  col- 
lectively, the  unity  of  their  common  orbit  ;  but  likewise 
supplies,  by  a  sort  of  subintelligitur,  the  one  central  pow- 
er, which  renders  the  moveiiient  harmonious  and  cy- 
clical 


165 

Thesis  III. — We  are  to  seek,  therefore,  for  some^ 
absolute  truth,  capable  of  communicating  to  other  posi- 
tions, a  certainty,  which  it  has  not  itself  borrowed  ;  a 
truth  self-grounded,  unconditional,  and  known  by  its  own 
light.  In  short,  we  have  to  find  a  somewhat,  which  is, 
simply,  because  it  is.  In  order  to  be  such,  it  must  be 
one  which  is  its  own  predicate,  so  far,  at  least,  that  all 
other  nominal  predicates  must  be  modes  and  repetitions 
of  itself.  Its  existence,  too,  must  be  such  as  to  preclude 
the  possibility  of  requiring  a  cause,  or  antecedent,  with- 
out an  absurdity. 

Thesis  IV. — That  there  can  be  but  one  such  princi- 
ple, may  be  proved  a  priori  ;  for  were  there  two  or 
more,  each  must  refer  to  some  other,  by  which  its 
equality  is  affirmed  ;  consequently,  neither  would  be 
self-established,  as  the  hypothesis  demands.  And  a  pos- 
teriori, it  will  be  proved  by  the  principle  itself,  when  it 
is  discovered,  as  involving  universal  antecedents  in  its 
very  conception. 

Scholium.  If  we  affirm  of  a  board  that  it  is  blue,  the 
predicate  (blue)  is  accidental,  and  not  implied  in  the 
subject,  board.  If  we  affirm  of  a  circle,  that  it  is  equi- 
radical,  the  predicate,  indeed,  is  implied  in  the  definition 
of  the  subject  ;  but  the  existence  of  the  subject  itself 
is  contingent,  and  supposes  both  a  cause  and  a  percipient. 
The  same  reasoning  will  apply  to  the  indefinite  number 
of  supposed  indemonstrable  truths,  exempted  from  the 
prophane  approach  of  philosophic  investigation  by  the 
amiable  Beattie,  and  other  less  eloquent  and  not  more 
profound  inaugurators  of  common  sense,  on  the  throne 
of  philosophy  ;  a  fruitless  attempt,  were  it  only  that  it 
is  the  two-fold  function  of  philosophy  to  reconcile  reason 
with  common  sense,  and  to  elevate  conmion  sense  int(? 
reason. 

Thesis  V. — Such  a  principle  cannot  be  any  thing  or 
OBJECT.  Each  thing  is  what  it  is  in  consequence  of 
some    other   thing.     An    infinite,  independent  r/iing,*  is 

*  The  impossibilit;y' of  an  absolute  thing,  (substantia  unica,;  as  neither 
genus,  species,  nor  individuum,  as  well  as  its  utter  unfitness  for  the  fun- 
daaiental  position  of  a  philosophic  system,  will  be   demonstrated  in,  the. 
critique  en  Spinozism  in  the  fifth  treatise  of  niy  iiogosophia. 
13^ 


166 

no  less  a  contradiction,  than  an  infinite  circle,  or  a  side^ 
Jess  triangle.  Besides,  a  thing  is  that  which  is  capable 
of  being  an  object,  of  which  itself  is  not  the  sole  perci- 
pient. But  an  object  is  inconceivable  without  a  subject 
as  its  antithesis.  Omne  perceptum  percipientem  sup- 
ponit. 

But  neither  can  the  principle  be  found  in  a  subject,  as 
a  subject,  contra-distinguished  from  an  object  ;  for  uni- 
cuique  percipienti  aliquid  objicitur  perceptum.  It  is  to 
be  found,  therefore,  neither  in  object  or  subject,  taken 
separately  ;  and,  consequently,  as  no  other  third  is  con- 
ceivable, it  must  be  found  in  that  which  is  neither  sub- 
ject nor  object  exclusively,  but  which  is  the  identity  of 
both. 

Thesis  VI. — This  principle,  and  so  characterized, 
Manifests  itself  in  the  Sum  or  I  am  ;  which  I  shall  hereaf- 
ter indiscriminately  express  by  the  words  spirit,  self, 
and  self-consciousness.  In  this,  and  in  this  alone,  object 
and  subject,  being  and  knowing,  are  identical,  each  in- 
volving and  supposing  the  other.  In  other  words,  it  is  a 
subject  which  becomes  a  subject  by  the  act  of  construc- 
ting itself  objectively  to  itself;  but  which  never  is  an 
object  except  for  itself,  and  only  so  far  as  by  the  very 
same  act  it  becomes  a  su»^ject.  It  may  be  described, 
therefore,  as  a  perpetual  self-duplication  of  one  and  the 
same  power,  into  object  and  subject,  wiiich  presuppose 
each  other,  and  can  exist  only  as  antithesis. 

Scholium.  If  a  man  be  asked  how  he  kno'ws  that  he 
is  ?  he  can  only  answer,  sum  quia  sum.  But  if  (the  ab- 
soluteness of  this  certainty  having  been  admitted)  he 
be  again  asked,  how  he,  the  individual  person,  came  to 
be,  then,  in  relation  to  the  ground  of  his  existence^  not  to 
ikie  ground  of  his  knowledge  of  that  existence,  he  might 
ireply,  sum  quia  dens  est,  or  still  more  philosophically, 
sum  quia  in  deo  sum. 

But  if  we  elevate  our  conception  to  the  absolute  self, 
ihe  great  eternal  I  am,  then  the  principle  of  being,  and 
©f  knowledge,  of  idea,  and  of  reality  ;  the  ground  of  ex- 
istence, and  the  ground  of  the  knowledge  of  existence, 
iare  absolutely  ideiitica5«    Sum  quia  sum  ;.  I  am,  because 


167 

I  affirm  myself  to  be  ;  I  affirm  myself  to  be,  because  i 
am.'^ 

Thesis  VII. — If  then  I  know  myself  only  through  my- 
self, it  is  contradictory  to  require  any  other  predicate  of 
self,  but  that  of  self-consciousness.  Only  in  the  self- 
consciousness  of  a  spirit  is  there  the  required  identity  of 
object  and  of  representation  ;  for  herein  consists  the  es- 
sence of  a  spirit,  that  it  is  self-representative.  If,  there- 
fore, this  be  the  one  only  immediate  truth,  in  the  certain- 
ty of  which  the  reality  of  our  collective  knowledge  is 
grounded,  it  must  follow  that  the  spirit  in  all  the  objects 
which  it  views,  views  only  itself  If  this  could  be  prov- 
ed, the  immediate  reality  of  all  intuitive  knowledge 
would  be  assured.  It  has  been  shown,  that  a  spirit  is 
that  which  is  its  own  object,  yet  not  originally  an  object, 
but  an  absolute  subject  for  which  all,  itself  included,  may 
become  an  object.  It  must,  therefore,  be  an  act  ;  for 
every  object  is,  as  an  object^  dead,  fixed,  incapable  in 
itself  of  any  action,  and  necessarily  finite.  Again;  the 
spirit,  (originally  the  identity  of  object  and  subject,) 
must,  in  some  sense,  dissolve  this  identity,  in  order  to 
be    conscious  of  it  :  fit  alter  et  idem.     But  this  implies 

*  It  is  most  worthy  of  notice,  that  in  the  first  revelation  of  himself,  not 
confined  to  individuals  ;  indeed,  in  the  very  first  revelation  of  his  absolute 
being,  Jehovah,  at  the  same  time  revealed  the  fundamental  truth  of  all 
philosophy,  which  must  either  commence  with  the  absolute,  or  have  no 
fixed  commencement;  i.  e.  cease  to  be  philosoohy.  I  cannot  but  express 
my  regret,  that  in  the  equivocal  use  of  the  word  that,  for  in  that^  or  because^ 
our  admirable  version  has  rendered  the  passage  susceptible  of  a  degraded 
interpretation  in  the  mind  of  common  readers  or  hearers,  as  if  it  were  a 
mere  reproof  to  an  impertinent  question,  1  am  what  I  am,  which  might  be 
equally  affirmed  of  himself  by  any  existent  being. 

The  Cartesian  Cogito,  ergo  sum,  is  objectionable,  because  either  the 
Cogito  is  used  extra  Gradum,  and  then  it  is  involved  in  the  sum  and  is 
'tautological,  or  it  is  taken  as  a  particular  mode  or  dignity,  and  then  it  is 
subordinated  to  the  sum  as  the  species  to  the  genus  ;  or,  ra-.her,  as  a  particu- 
lar modification  to  the  subject  modified  ;  and  not  pre-ordinated  as  the  ar- 
guments seem  to  require.  For  Cogito  is  Sum  Cogitans.  This  is  clear  by 
the  inevidence  of  the  converse.  Cogitat  ergo  est,  is  true,  because  it  is  a 
mere  application  of  the  logical  rule  :  Quicquid  in  genere  est,  est  et  in 
specie.  Est  (cogitans)  ergo  est.  It  is  a  cherry  tree  ;  therefore  it  is  a 
tree.  But,  est  ergo  cogitat,  is  illogical  :  for  quod'estin  specie,  non  neces- 
sario  in  genere  est.  it'may  be  true  I  hold  it  to  be  true,  that  quicquid 
vere  est,  est  perveramsui  affirmationem  ;  but  it  is  a  derivative,  not  an  im- 
mediate truth.  Here,  then,  we  have,  by  anticipation,  the  distinction  be- 
tween the  conditional  finite  I,  (which,  as  known  in  distinct  consciousness 
by  occasion  of  experience,  is  called  bv  Kant's  followers,  the  empirical  I,) 
and  the  absolute  I  am,  and  likewise  tne  dependence,  or  rather  the  inhe- 
rence  of  the  formi^r  in  the  latter;  in  whom  ''we  live,  and  move,  and  have 
our  being,"  as  St.  Paul  divinely  itsserts,  differing  widely  from  the  Theists 
of  the  mechanic  school,  {as  >ir  J,  Newton,  Locke  &l.)  who  must  say  from 
whom  we  had  our  being,  and  with  it,  life  and  the.  powers  of  life. 


168 

an  act,  and  it  follows,  therefore,  that  intelligence  or 
self-consciousness  is  impossible,  except  by  and  in  a  will. 
The  self-conscious  spirit,  therefore,  is  a  will  ;  and  free- 
dom must  be  assumed  as  a  ground  of  philosophy,  and 
can  never  be  deduced  from  it. 

Thesis  VIII. — Whatever  in  its  origin  is  objective,  is 
likewise  as  such  necessarily  finite.  Therefore,  since  the 
spirit  is  not  originally  an  object,  and  as  the  subject  ex- 
ists in  antithesis  to  an  object,  the  spirit  cannot  originally 
be  finite.  But  neither  can  it  be  a  subject  without  be- 
coming an  object,  and  as  it  is  originally  the  identity  of 
both,  it  can  be  conceived  neither  as  infinite  or  finite,  ex- 
clusively, but  as  the  most  original  union  of  both.  In  the 
existence,  in  the  reconciling,  and  the  recurrence  of  this 
contradiction,  consists  the  process  and  mystery  of  pro- 
duction and  life. 

Thesis  IX. — This  principium  commune  essendi  et 
cognoscendi,  as  subsisting  in  a  will,  or  primary  act  of 
self-duplication,  is  the  mediate  or  indirect  principle  of 
every  science  ;  but  it  is  the  immediate  and  direct  princi- 
ple of  the  ultimate  science  alone,  i.  e.  of  transcendental 
philosophy  alone.  For  it  mus-t  be  remembered,  that 
all  these  Theses  refer  solely  to  one  of  the  two  Polar 
Sciences,  namely,  to  that  which  commences  with,  and 
rigidly  confines  itself  within  the  subjective,  leaving  the 
objective,  (as  far  as  it  is  exclusively  objective,)  to  natu- 
ral philosojih}^  which  is  its  opposite  pole.  In  its  very 
idea,  therefore,  as  a  systematic  knowledge  of  our  collec- 
tive KNOWING,  (scientia  scientiae,)  it  involves  the  neces- 
sity of  some  one  highest  principle  of  knowing,  as  at  once 
the  source  and  the  accompanying  form  in  all  particular 
acts  of  intellect  and  perception.  This,  it  has  been 
shown,  can  be  found  only  in  the  act  and  evolution  of  self- 
consciousness.  We  are  not  investigating  an  absolute 
principium  essendi  ;  for  then,  I  admit,  many  valid  ob- 
jections might  be  started  against  eur  theory  ;  but  an  ab- 
solute principium  cognoscendi.  The  result  of  both  the 
sciences,  or  their  equatorial  point,  would  be  the  principle 
of  a  total  and  undivided  philosophy,  as,  for  prudential 
reasons,  1  have  chosen  to  anticipate  in  the  Scholium  to 
Thesis  VL  and  the  note  subjoined.     In  other  words,  phf- 


169 

losophy  would  pass  into  religion,  and  religion  become  in* 
elusive  of  philosophy.  We  begin  with  the  I  know  myself, 
in  order  to  end  with  the  absolute  I  am.  We  proceed  from 
the  SELF,  in  order  to  lose  and  find  all  self  in  God. 

Thesis  X. — -The  transcendental  philosopher  does  not 
inquire,  what  ultimate  ground  of  our  knowledge  there 
may  lie  out  of  our  knowing,  but  what  is  the  last  in  our 
knowing  itself,  beyond  which  'we  cannot  pass.  The  prin- 
ciple of  our  knowing  is  sought  within  the  sphere  of  our 
knowing.  It  must  be  something,  therefore,  which  can 
itself  be  known.  It  is  asserted,  only,  that  the  act  of 
self-consciousness  is  for  us  the  source  and  principle  of  all 
our  possible  knowledge.  Whether,  abstracted  from  us, 
there  exists  any  thing  higher  and  beyond  this  primary 
self-knowing,  v/hich  is  for  us  the  form  of  all  our  knowing, 
must  be  decided  by  the  result. 

That  the  self-consciousness  is  the  fixt  point,  to  which 
for  us  all  is  morticed  and  annexed,  needs  no  further  proof. 
But  that  the  self-consciousness  may  be  the  modification 
of  a  higher  form  of  being,  perhaps  of  a  higher  conscious- 
ness, and  this  again  of  a  yet  higher,  and  so  on  in  an  infi- 
nite regressus  ;  in  short,  that  self-consciousness  may  be 
itself  something  explicable  into  something,  which  must  lie 
beyond  the  possibility  of  our  knowledge,  because  the 
whole  synthesis  of  our  intelligence  is  first  formed  in  and 
through  the  self-consciousness,  does  not  at  all  concern  us  as 
transcendental  philosophers.  For  to  us  the  self-conscious^ 
nessis  not  a  kind  of  being,  but  a  kind  of  knoxsoing,  and  that 
tpothe  highest  and  farthest  that  exists  for  us.  It  may  how- 
ever be  shown,  and  has  in  part  already  been  shown,  in 
pages  74-75,  *  that  even  when  the  Objective  is  assumed 
as  the  first,  we  yet  can  never  pass  beyond  the  principle 
of  self  consciousness.  Should  we  attempt  it,  we  must  be 
driven  back  from  ground  to  ground,  each  of  which  would 
cease  to  be  a  ground  the  moment  we  pressed  on  it.  We 
must  be  whirled  down  the  gulph  of  an  infinite  series.  But 
this  would  make  our  reason  baiSle  the  end  and  purpose 
of  all  reason,  namely,  unity  and  system.  Or  we  must 
break  off  the  system  arbitrarily,  and  affirm  an  absolute 
something  that  is  in  and  of  itself  at  once  cause  and  effect, 
{causa  sui)  subject  and  object,  or,  rather,  the  absolute 
identity  of  both.  But  as  this  is  inconceivable,  except  in 
a  self-consciousness,  it  follows,  that  even  ^  natural  phi.- 


170 

fosophers  we  must  arrive  at  the  same  principle  from 
which  as  transcendental  philosophers  we  set  out ;  that  is, 
in  a  self-consciousness  in  which  the  principium  essendi 
does  not  stand  to  the  principium  cognoscendi  in  the  re- 
lation of  cause  to  effect,  but  both  the  one  and  the  other 
are  co-inherent  and  ihdentical.  Thns  the  true  system 
of  natural  philosophy  places  the  sole  reality  of  things  in 
an  ABSOLUTE,  which  is  at  once  causa  sui  et  effectus,  ^a''^? 
aulonalc^Si  Xios  eavh—in  the  absolute  identity  of  subject  and 
object,  which  it  calls  nature,  and  which  in  its  highest 
power  is  nothing  else  but  self-conscious  will  or  intelli- 
gence. In  this  sense  the  position  of  Malbranche,  that  we 
see  all  things  in  God,  is  a  strict  philosophical  truth  ;  and 
equally  true  is  the  assertion  of  Hobbes,  of  Hartley,  and 
of  their  masters  in  ancient  Greece,  that  all  real  know- 
ledge supposes  a  prior  sensation.  For  sensation  itself  is 
but  vision  nascent,  not  the  cause  of  intelligence,  but  in- 
telligence itself  revealed  as  an  earlier  power  in  the  pro» 
cess  of  self  construction. 

Mcixa?,  rxa9t  jio» ! 

Ei  Traftt  )to(Tfiov, 
El  Traftt  jioipav 
TuJv  cru3v  Ihyov  I 

Bearing  then  this  in  mind,  that  intelligence  is  a  sell^ 
development,  not  a  quality  supervening  to  a  substance, 
we  may  abstract  from  all  degree,  and  for  the  purpose  of 
philosophic  construction  reduce  it  to  kiiid,  under  the  idea 
of  an  indestructible  power,  with  two  opposite  and  counter- 
acting forces,  which  by  a  metaphor  borrowed  from  astro- 
nomy, we  may  call  the  centrifugal  and  centripedal  forces... 
The  intelligence  in  the  one  tends  io  ohjectize  itself,  and  I 
in  the  other  to  know  itself  in  the  object.  It  will  be  here- 
after my  business  to  construct,  by  a  series  of  intuitions,  the 
progressive  schemes  that  must  follow  from  such  a  power 
with  such  forces,  till  I  arrive  at  the  fulness  of  the  human 
intelligence.  For  my  present  purpose,  I  assume  such  a 
power  as  my  principle,  in  order  to  deduce  from  it  a  fa- 
culty, the  generation,  agency,  and  application  of  which 
form  the  contents  of  the  ensuing  chapter. 

In  a  preceding  page  I  have  justified  the  use   of  tech- 
nical terms  in  philosophy,  whenever  they  tend  to  pre- 


171 

dude  confusion  of  thought,  and  when  they  assist  the  me- 
mory by  the  exclusive  singleness  of  their  meaning  more 
than  they  may,  for  a  short  time,  bewilder  the  attention 
by  their  strangeness.  I  trust,  that  I  have  not  extended 
this  privilege  beyond  the  grounds  on  which  I  have  claim- 
ed it  ;  namely^Jhe  conveniency  of  the  scholastic  phrase 
to  distinguish  the  kind  from  all  degrees,  or  rather  to  ex- 
press the  kind  with  the  abstraction  of  degree,  as,  for  in- 
stance, multeity  instead  of  multitude  ;  or,  secondly,  for 
the  sake  of  correspondence  in  sound  and  interdependent 
or  antithetical  terms,  as  subject  and  object  ;  or,  lastly,  to 
avoid  the  wearying  recurrence  of  circumlocutions  and  de- 
tinitions.  Thus  1  shall  venture  to  use  potence,  in  order 
to  express  a  specific  degree  of  a  power,  in  imitation  of 
the  algebraists.  I  have  even  hazarded  the  new  verb 
potenziate,  with  its  derivatives,  in  order  to  express  the 
combination  or  transfer  of  powers.  It  is  with  new  or 
unusual  terms,  as  with  privileges  in  courts  of  justice  or 
legislature  ;  there  can  be  no  legitimate  privilege^  where 
there  already  exists  a  positive  law  adequate  to  the  pur- 
pose ;  and  when  there  is  no  law  in  existence,  the  privi- 
lege is  to  be  justified  by  its  accordance  with  the  end,  or 
final  cause  of  all  law.  Unusual  and  nev/-coined  words 
are  doubtless  an  evil;  but  vagueness,  confusion,  and  im- 
perfect conveyance  of  our  thoughts,  are  a  far  greater. 
Every  system,  which  is  under  the  necessity  of  using 
terms  not  familiarized  by  the  metaphysics  in  fashion,  will 
be  described  as  written  in  an  unintelligible  style,  and  the 
author  must  expect  the  charge  of  having  substituted  learn- 
ed jargon  for  clear  conception  ;  while,  according  to  the 
creed  of  our  modern  philosophers,  nothing  is  deemed  a 
clear  conception,  but  what  is  representable  by  a  distinct 
image.  Thus  the  conceivable  is  reduced  within  the 
bounds  of  the  picturable.  Hinc  patet,  qut  fiat  ut,  cum 
irreprcEsentable  et  impossibile  vulgo  ejusdem  significatus 
habeantur,  conceptus  tarn  Continui^  quam  infiniti,  a  plu- 
rimis  rejeciantur,  quippe  quorum,  secundum  leges  cogni- 
tionis  iiituitivce,  repra^sentatio  est  impossililis.  Quan- 
quamautem  harum  e  non  p.-nicis  scholis  explosarum  noti- 
oanm,  pra^sertim  prions,  causam  hie  hon  gero,  maximi 
tamen  momenti  p.rit  monuisse  :  gravissimo  illos  errore  la- 
bi,  qui  tam  perversa  argumentnndi  patione  utuntur.  Quic- 
quid  enim  repugnat  legibus  intellectiis  et  rationis,  utique 


172 

est  impossibile  ;  quod  autem,  cum  rationis  puras  sit  ob- 
jectum,  legibus  cognitionis  intuitivae  tantummodo  non  sub- 
est^  non  item.  Nam  liinc  dissensus  inter  facultatem  sen- 
sitivam  et  intellectualem^  (quarem  indole m  mox  exponam) 
nihil  indigitat,  nisi,  quas  mens  ah  intellectu  accerptas  fert 
ideas  abstractas^  illas  in  concreto  exequi,  et  in  Intuitus  com- 
mutare  sctpemimero  non  posse,  Haec  autem  reluctantia 
subjectiva  mentitur,  ut  plurimum,  repugnantiam  aliquam 
objectivarn,  et  incautos  facile  fallit,  limitibus,  quibus  mens 
fiumana  circuscribitnr,  pro  iis  habitis,  quibus  ipsa  rerum 

essentia  continetur.* Kant  de  Mundi  Sensibilis  atque 

fntelligibilis  forma  et  principiis,  1770. 

Critics,  who  are  most  ready  to  bring  this  charge  of  pe- 
dantry and  unintelliii;ibility,  are  the  most  apt  to  overlook 
the  important  fact,  that  beside  the  language  of  words, 
there  is  a  language  of  spirits  (sermo  interior)  and  that  the 
former  is  only  the  vehicle  of  the  latter.  Consequently, 
their  assurance,  that  the}^  do  not  understand  the  philoso- 
phic writer,  intead  of  proving  any  thing  against  the  phi- 
losophy, may  furnish  an  equal  and  (caeteris  paribus)  even 
a  stronger  presumption  against  their  own  philosophic 
talent. 

*  Trnmlation. — *-'  Hence  it  is  clear,  from  what  cause  many  reject  the 
iiotion  of  the  continuous  and  the  infinite.  They  take,  namely,  the  words 
irrepresentable  ai.d  impo>sit>le,  in  one  and  the  same  meaning;;  and,  ac- 
cording to  the  forms- of  sensuous  evidence,  the  notion  of  the  continuous 
and  the  infinite  is  doubtless  impossible.  1  am  not  now  pleading  the 
cause  of  these  lans,  which  not  a  few  schools  have  thought  proper  to  ex- 
plode, especially  the  former  (the  law  of  continuity.)  But  it  is  of^the  high- 
est importance  to  admonish  the  reader,  that  those  who  adopt  so  perverted 
a  mode  of  reasoning,  are  under  a  grievous  errer.  Whatever  opposes  the 
formal  principles  of  the  understanding  and  the  reason  is  confessedly  im- 
possible but  not  therefore  that  vviiich  is  therefore  not  amenable  to  the 
i'ovms  of  sensuous  evidence,  because  it  is  exclusively  an  object  of  pure  intel- 
lect. For  this  non -coincidence  of  the  sensuous  and  the  mtellectual,  (the 
nature  of  which  1  shall  presently  lay  open)  proves  nothing  more  but  that 
the  mind  cannot  always  adeo,uately  represent  in  the  concrete,  and  trans- 
form iito  distinct  images,  abstract  notions  derived  from  the  pure  intellect. 
But  this  contradiction,  which  is  in  itself  merely  subjective,  (i.  e.  an  incapa- 
city in  the  nature  of  man)  too  often  passes  for  an  incongruity  or  impossi- 
bilty  in  the  object  (i.  e.  the  notions  themselves)  and  seduce  the  incau- 
tious to  mistake  the  limitations  of  the  human  faculties  for  the  limits  of 
things,  as  they  really  exist." 

I  take  this  occasion  to  observe  that  here  and  elsewhere,  Kant  uses  the 
terms  intuition,  and  the  verb  active  intueri,  fgermanic^,  anschaueji)  for 
which  we  have  unfortunately  no  corres))ondent  word,  ex'lusively  for  that 
which  can  be  represented  in  space  and  time  He  therefore  consistently, 
and  rightly,  denies  the  possibihty  of  intellectual  intuitions.  But  as  I  see 
no  adequate  reason  for  this  exclusive  sense  of  the  term,  I  have  reverted 
to  its  wider  signification  authorized  by  our  elder  theologians  and  meta- 
physicians, according  to  whom  the  term  comiDrehends  all  truths  known 
to  u,$  without  a  medium. 


173 

Great  indeed  are  the  obstacles  which  an  English  meta- 
physician has  to  encounter.  Amongst  his  most  respect- 
able and  intelligent  judges,  there  will  be  many  who  have 
devoted  their  attention  exclusively  to  the  concerns  and 
interests  of  human  life,  and  who  bring  with  them  to  the 
perusal  of  a  philosophic  system  an  habitual  aversion  to  all 
speculations,  the  utihty  and  application  of  which  are  not 
evident  and  immediate.  To  these  I  would,  in  the  first 
instance,  merely  oppose  an  authority  which  they  them- 
selves hold  venerable,  that  of  Lord  Bacon  :  non  inutile 
scientioB  existimande  sunt,  quarum  in  se  nullus  est  usus, 
si  ingenia  acuant  et  ordinent. 

There  are  others,  whose  prejudices  are  still  more  for- 
midable, inasmuch  as  they  are  grounded  in  their  moral 
feelings  and  religious  principles,  which  had  been  alarmed 
and  shocked  by  the  impious  and  pernicious  tenets  de- 
defended  by  Hume,  Priestly,  and  the  French  fatalists  or 
necessitarians  ;  some  of  whom  had  perverted  metaphy- 
sical reasonings  to  the  denial  of  the  mysteries,  and,  in- 
deed, of  all  the  peculiar  doctrines  of  Christianity  ;  and 
others  even  to  the  subversion  of  all  distinction  between 
right  and  wrong.  I  would  request  such  men  to  consider 
what  an  eminent  and  successful  defender  of  the  christian 
faith  has  observed,  that  true  methaphysics  are  nothing 
else  but  true  divinity,  and  that  in  fact  the  writers  who 
have  given  them  such  just  offence,  were  sophists,  who 
had  taken  advantage  of  the  general  neglect  into  which  the 
science  of  logic  has  unhappily  fallen,  rather  than  meta- 
physicians, a  name,  indeed,  which  those  writers  were  the 
first  to  explode  as  unmeaning.  Secondly,  I  would  re- 
mind them,  that  as  long  as  there  are  men  in  the  world  to 
whom  the  Tvw^i  aiavrov  is  an  instinct  and  a  command  from 
their  own  nadure,  so  long  will  there  be  metaphysicians 
and  metaphysical  speculations  ;  that  false  metaphysics 
can  be  effectually  counteracted  by  true  metaphysics  alone ; 
and  that  if  the  reasoning  be  clear,  solid,  and  pertinent,  the 
truth  deduced  can  never  be  the  less  valuable  on  account 
of  the  depth  from  which  it  may  have  been  drawn. 

A  third  class  profess  themselves  friendly  to  metaphysics, 
and  beUeve  that  they  are  themselves  metaphysicians. 
They  have  no  objection  to  system  or  terminology,  provided 
it  be  the  method  and  the  nomenclature  to  which  they  have 
been  familiarized  in  the  writings  of  Locke,  Hume;  Hart- 

VoL.  I.  15 


174 

ley,  Condiliac,  or,  perhaps,  Dr.  Reid  and  Professor  Stew- 
art. To  objections  from  this  cause,  it  is  a  sufficient  an- 
swer, that  one  main  object  of  my  attempt  was  to  demon- 
strate the  vagueness  or  insufficiency  of  the  terms  used  in 
the  metaphysical  schools  of  France  and  Great  Britain 
since  the  revolution,  and  that  the  errors  which  I  pro- 
pose to  attack  cannot  subsist,  except  as  they  are  con- 
cealed behind  the  mask  of  a  plausible  and  indefinite  no- 
menclature. 

But  the  worst  and  widest  impediment  still  remains. 
It  is  the  predominance  of  a  popular  philosophy,  at  once 
the  counterfeit  and  the  mortal  enemy  of  all  true  and 
manly  metaphysical  research.  It  is  that  corruption,  in- 
troduced by  certain  immethodical  aphorisming  Eclectics, 
who,  dismissing,  not  only  all  system,  but  all  logical  con- 
nexion, pick  and  choose  whatever  is  most  plausible  and 
showy  ;  who  select  whatever  words  can  have  some 
semblance  of  sense  attached  to  them  without  the  least 
expenditure  of  thought ;  in  short,  whatever  may  enable 
men  to  talk  of  what  they  do  not  understand,  with  a  care- 
ful avoidance  of  every  thing  that  might  awaken  them  to 
a  moment'^  suspicion  of  their  ignorance.  This,  alas  I 
is  an  irremediable  disease,  for  it  brings  with  it,  not  so 
much  an  indisposition  to  any  particular  system,  but  an 
utter  loss  of  taste  and  faculty  for  all  system  and  for  all 
philosophy.  Like  echos,  that  beget  each  other  amongst 
the  mountains,  the  praise  or  blame  of  such  men  rolls  in 
volleys  long  after  the  report  from  the  original  blunder- 
buss. Sequacitas  est  potius  et  coitio  quam  consensus  : 
et  tamen  (quod  pessimum  est)  pusillanimitas  ista  non  sine 
arrogantia  et  fastidio  si  offert.      Novum  Organum, 

I  shall  now  proceed  to  the  nature  and  genesis  of  the 
imagination  ;  but  I  must  first  take  leave  to  notice,  that 
after  a  more  accurate  perusal  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  re- 
marks on  the  imagination  in  his  preface  to  the  new  edi- 
tion of  his  poems,  I  find  that  my  conclusions  are  not  so 
consentient  with  his,  as,  I  confess,  1  had  taken  for  grant- 
ed. In  an  article  contributed  by  me  to  Mr.  Southey's 
Omniana,  on  the  soul  and  its  organs  of  sense,  are  the  fol- 
lowing sentences.  "  These  (the  human  faculties)  I  would 
arrange  under  the  different  senses  and  powers  ;  as  the 
eye,  the  ear,  the  touch,  &c.  ;  the  imitative  power,  vo- 
luntary aud  automatic  ;  the  imagination,  or  shaping  and 


175 

modifying  power  ;  the  fancy,  or  the  aggregative  and  as- 
sociative power  ;  the  understanding,  or  the  regulative, 
substantiating  and  reahzing  power  ;  the  speculative  rea- 
son— vis  theoretica  et  scientiiica,  or  the  power  by  which 
we  produce,  or  aim  to  produce  unity,  necessity,  and  uni- 
versality in  all  our  knowledge  by  means  of  principles 
a  priori  ;*  the  will,  or  practical  reason  ;  the  faculty  of 
choice  (Germanice^  Willkiihr)  and  (distinct  both  from  the 
moral  will  and  the  choice)  the  sensation  of  volition,  which 
I  have  found  reason  to  include  under  the  head  of  single 
and  double  touch."  To  this,  as  far  as  it  relates  to  the 
subject  in  question,  namely,  the  words  {the  aggregative 
and  associative  pozcer)  Mr.  Wordsworth's  ''  only  objec- 
tion is  that  the  definition  is  too  general.  To  aggregate 
and  to  associate,  to  evoke  and  combine,  belong  as  well 
to  the  imagination  as  the  fancy."  1  reply,  that  if  by  the 
power  of  evoking  and  combining,  Mr.  W.  means  the 
same  as,  and  no  more  than,  1  meant  by  the  aggregative 
and  associative,  I  continue  to  deny,  that  it  belongs  at  all 
to  the  imagination  ;  and  I  am  disposed  to  conjecture, 
that  he  has  mistaken  the  co-presence  of  fancy  with  im- 
agination for  the  operation  of  the  latter  singly.  A  man 
may  work  with  two  very  difterent  tools  at  the  same  mo- 
ment ;  each  has  its  share  in  the  work,  but  the  work  ef- 
fected by  each,  is  distinct  and  different.  But  it  will 
probably  appear  in  the  next  Chapter,  that  deeming  it 
necessary  to  go  back  much  further  than  Mr.  Words- 
worth's subject  required  or  permitted,  1  have  attached 
a  meaning  to  both  fancy  and  imagination,  which  he  had 
not  in  view,  at  least  w^hile  he  w^as  writing  that  preface. 
He  will  judge.  Would  to  heaven,  I  might  meet  with 
many  such  readers.  I  will  conclude  w^ith  the  words  of 
Bishop  Jeremy  Taylor  :  he  to  whom  all  things  are  one, 
who  draweth  all  things  to  one,  and  seeth  all  things  in 
one,  may  enjoy  true  peace  and  rest  of  spirit.  (J.  I'ay- 
lor^s  Via  Pacis.) 

^  This  phrase,  a  priori^  is  in  common  most  grossly  misunderstood,  and 
an  absurdity  burthcned  on  it,  whic  h  it  does  not  deserve  !  By  knowledge, 
aprioriy  we  do  not  mean,  that  we  ran  know  any  thing"  proviousl}  to  ex- 
perience, which  would  be  a  contradiction  in  terras  ;  but,  thathavin<f  once 
known  it  by  occasion  of  expeiirnre,  (i.  e.  something' acting"  upOxi  us  from 
without,)  \vv  then  know,  that  it  must  have  pre-existed,  or  the  cxp<  \ience 
itself  would  have  been  impossible.  By  experience  only,  I  kiiow  that  I 
h?ve  .  yes  ;  but,  then  my  reason  convinces  me,  that  I  must  have  had  eyes 
in  order  lo  the  experience. 


i7e 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

On  the  imagination^  or  e9emplastic  poui^. 


O  Adam  !  one  Almighty  is,  from  whom 

Ail  things  proceed,  and  up  to  him  return, 

}f  not  depraved  from  good  :  created  all 

Such  to  perfection,  one  first  nature  all 

Indued  with  various  forms,  various  degrees 

Of  substance,  and  in  things  that  live,  of  life; 

But  more  refin'd,  more  spiritous  and  pure, 

As  nearer  to  him  placed  or  nearer  tending, 

Each  in  their  several  active  spheres  assigned. 

Till  body  up  to  spirit  work,  in  bounds 

Proportion'd  to  each  kind      So  from  the  root 

Springs  lighter  the  green  stalk  :  from  thence  the  leaves 

More  airy  :  last,  the  bright  consummate  flower 

Spirits  odorous  breathes.     Flowers  and  their  fruit, 

Man's  nourishment,  by  gradual  scale  subliraM, 

To  vital  spirits  aspire  :  to  animal  •• 

To  intellectual ! — give  both  life  and  sense, 

Fancy  and  understanding :  whence  the  soul 

Reaso>^  receives.     And  reason  is  her  beings 

Discursive  or  intuitive. 


Par.  Lost,  b.  v. 


*^  Sane  si  res  corporales  nil  nisi  materiale  continerent,  ve- 
rissime  dicerentur  in  fluxu  consistere  neque  habere  substan- 
liale  quicquam,  quemadinodum  et  Platonici  olim  recte  agno- 
vere. — Hinc  igitur,  praeter  pure  mathematica  et  phantasies 
subjecta,  collegi  qucedam  metaphysica  solaque  mente  percep- 
tibilia,  esse  admittenda  :  et  massi  materiali />Wnc?*piwm  quod- 
dam  siiperius  et,  ut  sic  dicam,  formale  addendum  :  quando- 
quidem  omnes  veritates  rerum  corporearum  ex  solis  axioma- 
tibus  logisticis  et  geometricis,  nempe  de  magno  et  parvo,  toto 
et  parte,  figura  el  situ,  colligi  non  pobsint ;  sod  alia  de  causa 
et  eiFectu,  adioneqiie  et  passioncy  accederc  debeant,  quibus 


177 

ordinis  rerum  rationes  salventur.  Td  principium  rerum,  aa 
ivlEKex'iiCiv  an  vim  appelemus,  non  refert,  modo  meminerimus, 
per  solam  Virium  notionem  intelligibiliter  explicari." 

Leibnitz  :  Op.  T.  II.  P.  IL  p.  53.— T.  III.  p,  321. 


Xa)?6.  TI  MESON 

SvxEsii,  HijmnUL  I  231. 


Des  Cartes,  speaking  as  a  naturalist,  and  in  imitation 
of  Archimedes,  said,  give  ine  matter  and  motion  and  I 
will  construct  you  the  universe.  We  must  of  course 
understand  him  to  have  meant :  I  will  render  the  con- 
struction of  the  universe  intelligible.  In  the  same  sense 
the  transcendental  philosopher  says,  grant  me  a  nature 
having  two  contrary  forces,  the  one  of  which  tends  to 
expand  infinitely,  while  the  other  strives  to  apprehend 
or  Jind  itself  in  this  inanity,  and  I  will  cause  the  world 
of  intelligences  with  the  whole  system  of  their  repre- 
sentations to  riae  up  before  you.  Every  other  science 
pre-supposes  intelligence  as  already  existing  and  com- 
plete :  the  philosopher  contemplates  it  in  its  growth, 
and,  as  it  were,  represents  its  history  to  the  mind  from 
its  birth  to  its  maturity. 

The  venerable  Sage  of  Koenigsberg  has  preceded  the 
march  of  this  master-thought  as  an  effective  pioneer  in 
his  essay  on  the  introduction  of  negative  quantities  into 
philosophy,  published  1763.  In  this,  he  has  show^n,  that 
instead  of  assailing  the  science  of  mathem-ritics  by  meta« 
physics,  as  Berkley  did  in  his  Analyst,  or  of  sophisticat- 
ing it,  as  Wolff  did,  by  the  vain  attempt  of  deducing  the 
first  principles  of  geometry  from  supposed  deeper 
grounds  of  ontology,  it  behooved  the  metaphysician  rather 
15* 


178 

lo  examine  whether  the  only  province  of  knowledge, 
which  man  has  succeeded  in  erecting  into  a  pure  sci- 
enr.e,  might  not  furnish  materials,  or  at  least  hints  for 
establishing  and  pacifying  the  unsettled,  warring,  and 
embroiled  domain  of  philosophy.  An  imitation  of  the 
mathematical  method^  had  indeed  b'^en  attempted  with 
no  better  success  than  attended  the  essay  of  David  to 
wear  the  armour  of  Saul.  Another  use,  however,  is 
possible,  and  of  far  greater  promise,  namely,  the  actual 
application  of  the  positions  which  had  so  wonderfully  en- 
larged the  discoveries  of  geometry,  mutatis  mutandis,  to 
j)hilosophical  subjects.  Kant,  having  briefly  illustrated 
the  utility  of  such  an  attempt  in  the  questions  of  space, 
motion,  and  infinitely  small  quantities,  as  employed  by 
the  mathematician,  proct(^ds  to  the  idea  of  negative  quan- 
tities and  the  transfer  of  them  to  metaphysical  invest'ga- 
tion.  Opposites,  he  well  observes,  are  of  two  kinds, 
either  logical,  i.  e.  such  as  are  absolutely  incompatible  ; 
or  real,  without  being  contradictory.  The  former,  he 
denominates  Nihil  negativum  irrepraesentabile,  the  con- 
nexion of  which  produces  nonsense.  A  body  in  motion 
is  something — Aliquid  cogitabile  ;  but  a  body,  at  one  and 
the  same  time  in  motion  and  not  in  motion,  is  nothing,  or, 
at  most,  air  articulated  into  nonsense.  But  a  motory 
force  of  a  body  in  one  direction,  and  an  equal  force  of 
the  same  body  in  an  opposite  direction  is  not  incompati- 
ble, and  the  result,  namely,  rest,  is  real  and  representa- 
ble.  For  the  purposes  of  mathematical  calculus  it  is 
indifferent,  which  force  we  term  negative,  and  which 
positive,  and  consequently,  we  appropriate  the  latter  to 
that  which  happens  to  be  the  principal  object  in  our 
thoughts.  Thus,  if  a  man's  capital  be  ten  and  his  debts 
eight,  the  subtraction  will  be  the  same,  whether  we  call 
the  capital  negative  debt,  or  the  debt  negative  capital- 
But  in  as  much  as  the  latter  stands  practically  in  refer- 
ence to  the  former,  we  of  course  represent  the  sum  as 
10 — 8.  It  is  equally  clear,  that  two  equal  forces  acting 
in  opposite  directions,  both  being  finite,  and  each  distin- 
guished from  the  other  by  its  direction  only,  must  neu- 
tralize or  reduce  each  other  to  inaction.  Now  the  tran- 
scendental philosophy  demands,  first,  that  two  forces 
should  be  conceived  which  counteract  each  other  by 
their  essential  nature  ;  not  only  not  in  consequence  of 


179 

the  accidental  direction  of  each,  but  as  prior  to  all  di- 
rection, nay,  as  the  primary  forces  from  which  the  con- 
ditions of  all  possible  directions  are  derivative  and  de- 
duvible  :  secondly,  that  these  forces  should  be  assumed 
to  be  both  alike  infinite,  both  alike  indestructible.  The 
problem  will  then  be  to  discover  the  result  or  product 
of  two  such  forces,  as  distinguished  from  the  result  of 
those  forces  which  are  finite,  and  derive  their  difference 
solely  from  the  circumstance  of  their  direction.  When 
we  have  formed  a  scheme  or  outline  of  these  two  dif- 
ferent kinds  of  force,  and  of  their  different  results  by  the 
process  of  discursive  reasoning,  it  will  then  remain  for 
us  to  elevate  the  Thesis  from  notional  to  actual,  by  con- 
templating intuitively  this  one  power  with  its  two  inhe- 
rent, indestructible,  yet  counteracting  forces,  and  the  re- 
sults or  generations  to  which  their  inter-penetration 
gives  existence,  in  the  living  principle,  and  in  the  pro- 
cess of  our  own  self-consciousness.  By  what  instru- 
ment this  is  possible  the  solution  itself  will  discover,  at 
the  same  time  that  it  will  reveal  to,  and  for  whom  it  is 
possible.  Non  omnia  possumes  omnes.  There  is  a  phi- 
losophic, no  less  than  a  poetic  genius,  which  is  differ- 
enced from  the  highest  perfection  of  talent,  not  by  de- 
gree, but  by  kind. 

The  counteraction,  then,  of  the  two  assumed  forces, 
does  not  depend  on  their  meeting  from  opposite  directions; 
the  power  which  acts  in  them  is  indestructible  ;  it  is, 
therefore,  inexhaustibly  re-ebullient  ;  and  as  something 
must  be  the  result  of  these  two  forces,  both  alike  infinite, 
and  both  alike  indestructible  ;  and,  as  rest  or  neutraliza- 
tion cannot  be  this  result,  no  other  conception  is  possible, 
but  that  the  product  must  be  a  tertium  aliquid,  or  finite 
generation.  Consequently,  this  conception  is  necessary. 
Now  this  tertium  aliquid  can  be  no  other  than  an  inter- 
penetration  of  the  counteracting  powers  partaking  of 
both 

Thus  far  had  the  work  been  transcribed  for  the  press^ 
w^hen  I  received  the  following  letter  from  a  friend,  whose 
practical  judgment  I  have  had  ample  Yeason  to  estimate 
and  revere,  and  whose  taste  and  sensibility  preclude  all 
the  excuses   which   my  self-love  might    possibly    hav^. 


180 

prompted  me  to  setup  in  plea  against  the  decision  of  ad- 
visers of  equal  good  sense,  but  with  less  tact  and  feeling. 

''Dear  C, 

"  You  ask  my  opinion  concerning  rjoxir  chapter  on  the 
imagination^  both  as  to  the  impressions  it  made  on  mijself^ 
and  as  to  those  which  I  think  it  will  make  on  the  public, 
/'.  e.  that  part  of  the  public  who,  from  the  title  of  the  work, 
and  from  its  forming  a  sort  of  introduction  to  a  volume  of 
poems,  are  likely  to  constitute  the  great  majority  of  your 
readers* 

''As  to  myself  and  stating,  in  the  first  place,  the  eff'ect 
on  my  understanding,  your  opinions,  and  method  of  argu- 
vient,  were  not  only  so  new  to  me,  but  so  directly  the  reverse 
of  all  I  had  ever  been  accustomed  to  consider  as  truth, 
that,  even  if  I  had  comprehended  your  premises  sufficiently 
tx)  have  admitted  them,  and  had  seen  the  necessity  of  your 
conclusions,  I  should  still  have  been  in  that  state  of  mind^ 
which,  in  your  note,  p,  50,  you  have  so  ingeniously  evolved, 
as  the  antithesis  to  that  in  which  a  man  is  when  he  makes  a 
bull.  In  your  own  Zi)ords,  I  shoidd  have  felt  as  if  I  had 
been  standing  on  my  head, 

'*  The  eff'ect  on  my  feelings,  on  the  other  hand,  I  can^iot 
better  represent,  than  by  supposing  myself  to  have  known 
only  our  light,  airy,  modern  chapels  of  ease,  and  then, 
for  the  first  time,  to  have  beeti  placed,  and  left  alone,  in 
one  of  our  largest  Gothic  cathedrals,  in  a  gusty  moonlight 
niglit  of  autumn.  "  JVow  in  glimmer,  and  noxo  in  gloom  ;" 
often  in  palpable  darkness,  7iot  W'ithout  a  chilly  sensation  of 
terror ;  then  suddenly  emerging  into  broad,  yet  visionary^ 
lights  with  coloured  shadows  of  fantastic  shapes,  yet  all 
decked  with  holy  insignia  and  mystic  symbols ;  and,  ever 
and  anon,  coming  out  full  upon  pictures,  and  stone-work 
images  of  great  men,  W'ith  wJwse  names  I  was  familiar, 
hut  which  looked  upon  me  with  countenances  and  an  expres- 
sion, the  most  dissimilar  to  all  I  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
connecting  with  those  names.  Those  whom  I  had  been  taught 
to  venerate  as  almost  super-human  in  magnitude  of  intel- 
lect, J  found  perched  in  little  fret-work  niches,  as  grotesque 
dwarfs  ;  zvhile  the  grotesques,  in  my  hitherto  belief,  stood 
guarding  the  high  altar  with  all  fh^  characters  of  Apothe- 
ms.     In  short,  zvhat  I  had  supposed  substances^  were  thinned 


181 

away  into  shadows,  whilcy  every  where,  shadows  were  deep- 
ened into  substances : 

If  substance  may  be  called  what  shadow  seem'd, 
For  each  seemM  either ! 

Milton. 

*'  Yet,  after  all,  I  could  not  but  repeat  the  lines  which  you 
had  quoted  from  a  MS,  poem  of  your  own  in  the  Friendj 
and  applied  to  a  work  of  Mr,  Wordsworth'' Sy  though  with 
a  few  of  the  words  altered : 


An  Orphic  tale  indeed. 


A  tale  obscure  of  high  and  passionate  thoughts 
To  a  strange  music  cbaunted  !" 

**  Be  assured,  however,  that  I  look  forward  anxiously  to 
your  great  book  on  the  constructive  philosophy,  which 
you  have  promised  and  announced :  and  that  I  will  do  my 
best  to  understand  it.  Only,  I  will  not  promise  to  descend 
into  the  dark  cave  of  Trophonius  with  you,  there  to  rub 
my  own  eyes,  in  order  to  make  the  sparks  and  figured 
flashes  which  I  am  required  to  see. 

*'  So  much  for  myself  But,  as  for  the  public,  I  do  not 
hesitate  a  tnoment  in  advising  and  urging  you  to  zmthdraza) 
the  chapter  from,  the  present  work^  and  to  reserve  it  for  your 
announced  treatises  on  the  Logos  or  communicative  intel- 
lect in  Man  and  Deity.  First,  because,  impterfectly  as  I 
understand  the  present  chapter,  I  see  clearly  that  you  have 
done  too  much,  and  yet  not  enough.  You  have  been  obliged 
to  omit  so  many  links  from  the  necessity  of  compressioUy 
that  what  remains,  looks,  {if  I  may  recur  to  my  former  iU 
lustration,^  like  the  fragmetits  of  the  winding  steps  of  an 
old  ruined  tower.  Secondly,  a  still  stronger  argument, 
(^at  least,  one  that  I  am  sure  will  be  more  forcible  with  you^\ 
is,  that  your  readers  will  have  both  right  and  reason  to 
complain  of  you.  This  chapter,  which  cannot,  when  it  is 
printed,  amount  to  so  little  as  an  hundred  pages,  will,  of 
necessity,  greatly  increase  the  expense  of  the  work ;  and 
every  reader  who,  like  myself  is  neither  prepared,  or,  per- 
haps, calculated  for  the  study  of  so  abstruse  a  subject  so 
abstrusely  treated,  will,  as  I  have  before  hinted,  be  almost 
entitled  to  accuse  you  of  a  sort  of  imposition  on  him.  For 
T^'hoj  he  might  truly  observe,  could,  from  your  title-page^ 


182 

tiz.,  '*g^p  ijtaar?  lift  anu  ©pinionig,"  pnhhshed,  too,  as 
introductory  to  a  volume  of  miscellaneous  poems,  have  an- 
ticipated, or  even  conjectured,  a  long  treatise  on  ideal  Re- 
ahstn,  rvhich  holds  the  same  relation,  in  abstruseness,  to  . 
Plotinus,  as  Plotinus  does  to  Plato,  It  unll  he  zvell  if,  al- 
ready, you  have  not  too  much  of  metaphysical  disquisition 
in  your  work,  though,  as  the  larger  part  of  the  disquisition 
IS  historical,  it  will,  doubtless,  be  both  interesting  and  in- 
structive to  many,  to  whose  unprepared  minds  your  specu- 
lations on  the  esemplastic  powder  would  be  utterly  unintelli- 
gible. Be  assured,  if  you  do  publish  this  chapter  in  tlie 
present  work,  you  will  be  reminded  of  Bishop  Berkley's 
Siris,  announced  as  an  Essay  on  Tar-water,  zcJiich,  begin- 
ning with  tar,  ends  with  the  Trinity,  the  omne  scibile  form- 
ing the  interspace,  I  say  in  the  present  work.  In  that 
greater  work  to  which  you  have  devoted  so  many  years,  and 
study  so  intense  and  various,  it  will  be  ?n  its  proper  place. 
Your  prospectus  will  have  described  a?id  announced  both  its 
eontents  and  their  nature  ;  and  if  ajiy  persons  purchase  it, 
who  feel  no  interest  in  the  subjects  of  which  it  treats,  they 
will  have  themselves  only  to  blame, 

^^  I  coidd  add,  to  these  arguments,  one  derived  from  pe- 
cuniary motives,  and  particularly  from  the  probable  eff'ects 
on  the  sale  of  yc^jr  present  publication ;  but  they  would 
''weigh  little  with  you,  compared  with  the  preceding.  Be- 
sides, I  have  long  observed,  that  ars:uments  drazim  from 
your  own  personal  interests,  more  often  act  on  you  as  nar- 
cotics than  as  stimulants,  and  that,  in  money  concerns,  you 
have  some  small  portioti  of  pig-nature  in  yotir  moral  idio- 
syncracy,and,  like  these  amiable  creatures,  must,  occasional- 
ly, be  pulled  backward  from  the  boat  in  order  to  make  you 
enter  it.  All  success  attend  you,  for  if  hard  thinking  and 
hard  reading  arc  merits,  you  have  deserved  it. 

Your  affectionate,  tj-c." 

In  consequence  of  this  very  judicious  letter,  which 
produced  complete  conviction  on  n)y  mind,  \  shall  con- 
tent myself  for  the  present  with  stating  the  main  result 
of  the  Chapter,  which  I  have  reserved  for  that  future 
publication,  a  detailed  prospectus  of  Vvhich  the  reader 
will  find  at  the  close  of  the  second  volume. 

The  IMAGINATION,  then,  1  consider  either  as  primary 
pr  secondary.     The   primary  imagii\ation  I  bold  to  be 


183 

the  living  Power  and  prime  Agent  of  all  human  Percep- 
tion, and  as  a  repetition  in  the  finite  mind  of  the  eternal 
act  of  creation  in  the  infinite  I  am.  The  secondary  I 
consider  as  an  echo  of  the  former,  co-existing  with  the 
conscious  will,  jet  still  as  identical  with  the  primary  in 
the  kind  of  its  agency,  and  differing  only  in  degree^  and 
in  the  mode  of  its  operation.  It  dissolves,  diffuses,  dis- 
sipates, in  order  to  re-create  ;  or,  where  this  process  is 
rendered  impossible,  yet  still,  at  all  events,  it  struggles 
to  idealize  and  to  unify,  it  is  essentially  vital,  even  as 
all  objects,  {as  objects,)  are  essentially  fixed  and  dead. 

Fancy,  on  the  contrary,  has  no  other  counters  to  play 
with,  but  fixities  and  definites.  The  Fancy  is,  indeed,  no 
other  than  a  mode  of  Memory  emancipated  from  the  or- 
der of  time  and  space,  and  blended  with,  and  modified 
by  that  empirical  phenomenon  of  the  will  which  we  ex- 
press by  the  word  choice.  But,  equally  with  the  ordi- 
nary memory,  it  must  receive  all  its  materials  ready 
made  from  the  law  of  association. 

Whatever,  more  than  this,  I  shall  think  it  ^i  to  declare, 
concerning  the  powers  and  privileges  of  the  imagination, 
in  the  present  work,  will  be  found  in  the  critical  essay 
on  the  uses  of  the  supernatural  in  poetry,  and  the  prin- 
ciples that  regulate  its  introduction  ;  which  the  reader 
will  find  prefixed  to  the  poem  of  %\)%  indent  Spanitfr. 


BND  OF  VOLUME  FIRST. 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERAEIA; 


OR 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 


OF    MY 


LITERARY  LIFE  AND  OPINIONS. 


BY  S.  T.  COLERIDGE,  E&Q, 


VOLUME  IL 


NEW  YORK. 

PUBLISHED  BY  KIRK  AND  iMERCEiN, 

No.  22  Wall-street. 


1817- 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Occanon  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  and  the  objects  originally 
proposed — Prejace  to  the  second  edition — The  ensuing 
controversy,  its  causes  and  acrimony — Philosophic  defi- 
nitions of  a  poem,  and  poetry  with  scholia. 

During  the  first  year  that  Mr.  Wordsworth  and  I  were 
neighbours,  our  conversations  turned  frequently  on  the 
two  cardinal  points  of  poetry,  the  power  of  exciting  the 
sympathy  of  the  reader  by  a  faithful  adherence  to  the 
truth  of  nature,  and  the  power  of  giving  the  interest  of 
novelty,  by  the  modifying  colours  of  imagination.  The 
sudden  charm,  which  accidents  of  light  and  shade, 
which  moon-light  or  sun-set,  diffused  over  a  known  and 
familiar  landscape,  appeared  to  represent  the  practicabi- 
lity of  combining  both.  These  are  the  poetry  of  nature. 
The  thought  suggested  itself,  (to  which  of  us  i  do  not  re- 
collect,) that  a  series  of  poems  might  be  composed  of 
two  sorts.  In  the  one,  the  incidents  and  agents  were  to 
be,  in  part  at  least,  supernatural  ;  and  the  excellence 
aimed  at,  was  to  consist  in  the  interesting  of  the  affec- 
tions by  the  dramatic  truth  of  such  emotions,  as  would 
naturally  accompany  such  situations,  supposing  them  real. 
And  real  in  this  sense  they  have  been  to  every  human 
being  who,  from  whatever  source  of  delusion,  has  at  any 
time  believed  himself  under  supernatural  agency.  For 
the  second  class,  subjects  were  to  be  chosen  from  ordina- 
ry li.e  ;  the  characters  and  incidents  were  to  be  such  as 
will  be  found  in  every  village  and  its  vicinity,  where 
there  is  a  meditative  and  feeling  mind  to  seek  after  them, 
or  to  notice  them^  when  they  present  themselves. 

In  this  idea  originated  the  plan  of  the  '*  Lyrical  Bal- 
lads ;"  in  which  it  was  agreed,  that  my  endeavours 
should  be  directed  to  persons  and  characters  supernatu- 


j:al,  or  at  least,  romantic  ;  yet  so  as  to  transfer  from  eur 
inward  nature  a  human  interest,  and  a  semblance  of  truth 
sufficient  to  procure  for  these  shadows  of  imagination  that 
williflg  suspension  of  disbelief  for  the  moment,  which 
constitutes  poetic  faith.  Mr.  Wordsworth,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  to  propose  to  himself,  as  his  object,  to  give  the 
charm  of  novelty  to  things  of  every  day,  and  to  excite 
a  feeling  analogous  to  the  supernatural,  by  awakening  the 
mind's  attention  from  the  lethargy  of  custom,  and  direct- 
ing it  to  the  loveliness  and  the  wonders  of  the  world  be- 
fore us  ;  an  inexhaustible  treasure,  but  for  w  hich,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  film  of  familiarity  and  selfish  solicitudCj 
we  have  eyes,  yet  see  not,  ears  that  hear  not,  and  hearts^ 
that  neither  feel  nor  understand. 

With  this  view,  I  wrote  the  '*  Ancient  Mariner,"  and 
was  preparing,  among  other  poems,  the  "  Dark  Ladie," 
and  the  "  Christobel,"  in  which  I  should  have  mere 
nearly  realized  my  ideal,  than  I  had  done  in  my  first  at- 
tempt. But  Mr,  Wordsworth's  industry,  had  proved  so 
much  more  successful,  and  the  number  of  his  poems  so 
much  greater,  that  my  compositions,  instead  of  forming 
a  balance,  appeared  rather  an  interpolation  of  heteroge- 
iieous  matter.  Mr.  Wordsworth  added  two  or  three  po- 
ems written  in  his  own  character,  in  the  impassioned, 
lofty,  and  sustained  diction,  which  is  characteristic  of  his 
genius.  In  this  form  the  ''  Lyrical  Ballads"  w^ere  pub- 
lished ;  and  weri^  presented  by  him,  as  an  experiment ^ 
whether  subjects,  which,  from  their  nature,  rejected  the 
Visual  ornaments  and  extra-colloquial  style  of  poems  in 
general,  might  not  be  so  managed  in  the  language  of 
ordinary  life,  as  to  produce  the  pleasurable  interest 
which  it  is  the  peculiar  business  of  poetry  to  impart. 
To  the  second  edition  he  added  a  preface  of  considera- 
ble length  ;  in  which,  notwithstanding  some  passages  of 
apparently  a  contrary  import,  he  was  understood  to  con- 
tend for  the  extension  of  this  style  to  poetry  of  all  kinds, 
and  to  reject  as  vicious  and  indefensible  all  phrases  and 
forms  of  style  that  were  not  included,  in  what  he  (unfor- 
tunately, I  think,  adopting  an  equivocal  expression,)  cal- 
led the  language  of  real  life.  From  this  preface,  prefix- 
ed to  poems  in  which  it  was  impoi^sible  to  deny  the  pre- 
sence of  original  genius,  however  mistaken  its  direction 
might  be  deemed,  arose  the  whole  long  continued  contro- 


Tersy.  For  from  the  conjunction  of  perceived  power 
with  supposed  heresy,  I  explain  the  inveteracy,  and,  in 
some  instances,  I  grieve  to  say,  the  acrimonious  passions, 
with  which  the  controversy  has  beea  conducted  by  the 
assailants. 

Had  Mr.  Wordsworth's  poems  been  the  silly,  the  child- 
ish things,  which  they  were  for  a  long  time  described  as 
being;  had  they  been  really  distinguished  from  the  com- 
positions of  other  poets,  merely  by  meanness  of  language 
and  inanity  of  thought ;  had  they,  indeed,  contained 
nothing  more  than  what  is  found  in  the  parodies,  and 
pretended  imitations  of  them  ;  they  must  have  sunk  at 
once,  a  dead  weight,  into  the  slough  of  oblivion,  and  have 
dragged  the  preface  along  with  them^  But  year  after  year 
increased  the  number  of  Mr.  Wordworth's  admirers. 
They  were  found,  too,  not  in  the  lower  classes  of  the 
reading  public,  but  chiefly  among  youug  men  of  strong 
sensibility  and  meditative  minds  ;  and  their  admiration 
(inflamed,  perhaps,  in  some  degree  by  opposition)  was 
distinguished  by  its  intensity,  1  might  almost  say,  by  its 
religious  fervour.  These  facts,  and  the  intellectual  ener- 
gy of  the  author,  which  was  more  or  less  consciously 
felt,  where  it  was  outwardly  and  even  boisterously  de- 
nied ;  meeting  with  sentiments  of  aversion  to  his  opinions, 
and  of  alarm  at  their  consequences,  produced  an  eddy 
of  criticism,  which  would,  of  itself,  have  borne  up  the 
poems  by  the  violence  with  which  it  whirled  them  round 
and  round.  With  many  parts  of  this  preface,  in  the  sense 
attributed  to  them,  and  which  the  words  undoubtedly 
seem  to  authorize,  I  never  concurred  ;  but,  on  the  con 
trary,  objected  to  them  as  erroneous  in  principle,  and  as 
contradictory  (in  appearance  at  least)  both  to  other 
parts  of  the  same  preface,  and  to  the  author's  own  prac- 
tice in  the  greater  number  of  the  poems  themselves.  Mr. 
Wordsworth,  in  his  recent  collection,  has,  I  find,  degraded 
this  prefatory  disquisition  to  the  end  of  his  second  volume,, 
to  be  read  or  not  at  the  reader's  choice.  But  he  has  not, 
as  far  as  1  can  discover,  announced  any  change  in  his  po- 
etic creed.  At  all  events,  considering  it  as  the  source  of 
a  controversy,  in  which  I  have  been  honoured  more  than 
1  deserve,  by  the  frequent  conjunction  of  my  name  with 
his,  1  think  it  expedient  to  declare,  once  for  all,  in  what 
points  1  coincide  with  his  opinions,  and  in  what  points  I 
1* 


6 

altogether  differ.  But  in  order  to  render  myself  intelli- 
gible, 1  must  previously,  in  as  few  words  as  possible,  ex- 
plain my  ideas,  first,  of  a  poem  ;  and,  secondly,  of  poetry 
itself,  in  kind^  and  in  essence. 

The  office  of  philosophical  disquisition  consists  in  just 
distinction  ;  while  it  is  the  privilege  of  the  philosopher 
to  preserve  himself  constantly  aw^are,  that  distinction  is 
not  division.  In  order  to  obtain  adequate  notions  of  any 
truth,  we  must  intellectually  separate  its  distinguishable 
parts  ;  and  this  is  the  technical  process  of  philosophy. 
But  having  so  done,  we  must  then  restore  them  in  our 
conceptions  to  the  unity,  in  which  they  actually  co-ex- 
ist ;  and  this  is  the  result  of  philosophy.  A  poem  con- 
tains the  same  elements  as  a  prose  composition  ;  the  dif- 
ference, therefore,  must  consist  in  a  different  combination 
of  them,  in  consequence  of  a  different  object  proposed. 
j\ccording  to  the  difference  of  the  object  will  be  the  dif- 
ference of  the  combination.  It  is  possible,  that  the  ob- 
ject may  be  merely  to  facilitate  the  recollection  of  any 
given  facts  or  observations,  by  artificial  arrangement ; 
and  the  composition  will  be  a  poem,  merely  because  it  is 
distinguished  from  prose  by  metre,  or  by  rhyme,  or  by 
both  conjointly.  In  this,  the  lowest  sense,  a  man  might 
attribute  the  name  of  a  poem  to  the  well-know^n  enume- 
ration of  the  days  in  the  several  months: 

**  Thirty  days  hath  September, 
ApriJ,  June,  and  jNovember,  &c." 

and  others  of  the  same  class  and  purpose.  And  as  a  par- 
ticular pleasure  is  found  in  anticipating  the  recurrence  of 
sounds  and  quantities,  all  compositions  that  have  this 
charm  superadded,  whatever  be  their  contents,  may  be 
entitled  poems. 

>So  much  for  the  superficiaiybrm.  A  difference  of  ob- 
ject and  contents  s\jpplies  an  additional  ground  of  dis- 
tinction. The  immediate  purpose  may  be  the  communi- 
cation of  truths  ;  either  of  truth  absolute  and  demonstra- 
ble, as  in  works  of  science  ;  or  of  facts  experienced  and 
recorded,  as  in  history  Pleasure,  and  that  of  the  high- 
est and  most  permanent  kind,  may  result  from  the  attain^ 
ment  of  the  end  ;  but  it  is  not  itself  the  immediate  end. 
In  other  works  the  communication  of  pleasure   may  be 


tlie  immediate  purpose  ;  and  though  truth,  either  moral 
or  inteJlectual,  ought  to  be  the  ultimate  end,  jet  this  will 
distinguish  the  character  of  the  author,  not  the  class  to 
which  the  work  belongs.  Blest,  indeed,  is  that  state  of 
society,  in  which  the  immediate  purpose  would  be  baf- 
fled by  the  perversion  of  the  proper  ultimate  end  ;  in 
which  no  charm  of  diction  or  imagery  could  exempt  the 
Bathyllus  even  of  an  Anacreon,  or  the  Alexis  of  Virgil, 
from  disgust  and  aversion  ! 

But  the  communication  of  pleasure  may  be  the  imme- 
diate object  of  a  work  not  metrically  composed  ;  and  that 
object  may  have  been  in  a  high  degree  attained,  as  in 
novels  and  romances.  Would  then  the  mere  superaddi- 
tion  of  metre,  with  or  without  rhyme,  entitle  these  to  the 
name  of  poems  ?  The  answer  is,  that  nothing  can  perma- 
nently please,  which  does  not  contain  in  itself  the  reason 
why  it  is  so,  and  not  otherwise.  \i  metre  be  superadded, 
ail  other  parts  must  be  made  consonant  with  it.  They 
must  be  such  as  to  justify  the  perpetual  and  distinct  at- 
tention to  each  part,  which  an  exact  correspondent  recur- 
rence of  accent  and  sound  are  calculated  to  excite.  The 
final  definition,  then,  so  deduced,  may  be  thus  worded  : 
A  poem  is  that  species  of  composit.on,  which  is  opposed 
to  works  of  science,  by  proposing  for  its  immediate  object 
pleasure,  not  truth  ;  and  from  all  other  species  (having 
this  object  in  common  with  it,)  it  is  discriminated  by  pro- 
posing to  itself  such  delight  from  the  whole,  as  is  compa- 
tible with  a  distinct  gratification  from  each  component 
part. 

Controversy  is  not  seldom  excited,  in  consequence  of 
the  disputants  attaching  each  a  different  meaning  to  the 
same  word  ;  and  in  iew  instances  has  this  been  more 
striking  than  in  disputes  concerning  the  present  subject. 
If  a  man  chooses  to  call  every  composition  a  poem, 
which  is  rhyme,  or  measure,  or  both,  1  must  leave  his 
opinion  uncontroverted.  The  distinction  is  at  least  com- 
petent to  characterize  the  writer's  intention.  If  it  were 
subjoined,  that  the  whole  is  likewise  entertaining  or  afF<  ct- 
ing,  as  a  tale,  or  as  a  series  of  interesting  reflections,  I  of 
course  admit  this  as  another  fit  ingr^edient  of  a  poem, 
and  an  additional  merit.  But  if  the  definition  sought  for 
be  that  of  a  legitimate  poem,  [  answer,  it  must  be  one, 
the  parts  of  which  mutually  support  and  explain  each 


8 

Other;  all  in  their  proportion  harmonizing  with,  and  sup- 
porting the  purpose  and  known  influences  of  metrical  ar- 
rangement. The  philosophic  critics  of  all  ages  coincide 
with  the  ultimate  judgment  of  all  countries,  in  equally 
denying  the  praises  of  a  just  poem,  on  the  one  hand,  to 
a  series  of  striking  lines  or  distichs,  each  of  which,  ab- 
sorbing the  whole  attention  of  the  reader  to  itself,  dis- 
joins it  from  its  context,  and  makes  it  a  separate  whole, 
instead  of  an  harmonizing  part ;  and  on  the  other  hand, 
to  an  unsustained  composition,  from  which  the  reader 
collects  rapidly  the  general  result,  unattracted  by  the 
component  parts.  The  reader  should  be  carried  forward, 
not  merely,  or  chiefly,  bv  the  mechanical  impulse  of  cu- 
riosity, or  by  a  restless  desire  to  arri?e  at  the  final  solu- 
tion ;  but  by  the  pleasurable  activity  of  mind,  excited 
by  the  attractions  of  the  journey  itself.  Like  the  motion 
of  a  serpent,  which  the  Egyptians  made  the  emblem  of 
intellectual  power  ;  or  like  the  path  of  sound  through  the 
air  J  at  every  step  he  pauses,  and  half  recedes,  and,  from 
the  retrogressive  movement,  collects  the  force  which 
again  carries  him  onward.  Precipitandus  est  liber  spiri- 
tus^  says  Petronius  Arbiter,  most  happily.  The  epithet, 
liber,  here  balances  the  preceding  verb  ;  and,  it  is  not 
easy  to  conceive  more  meaning,  condensed  in  fewer 
words. 

But  if  this  should  be  admitted  as  a  satisfactory  charac- 
ter of  a  poem,  we  have  still  to  seek  for  a  definition  of 
poetry.  The  writings  of  Plato,  and  Bishop  Taylor^ 
and  the  Theoria  Sacra  of  Burnet,  furnish  undeniable 
truths  that  poetry  of  the  highest  kind  may  exist  without 
metre,  and  even  without  the  contra-distinguishing  objects 
oi  a  poem.  The  first  chapter  of  Isaiah,  (indeed  a  very 
large  portion  of  the  whole  book,)  is  poetry  in  the  most 
emphatic  sense  ;  yet  it  would  be  not  less  irrational  than 
strange  to  assert,  that  pleasure,  and  not  truth,  was  the 
immediate  object  of  the  prophet.  In  short,  whatever 
specific  import  we  attach  to  the  word,  poetry,  there  will 
be  found  involved  in  it,  as  a  necessary  consequence, 
that  a  poem  of  any  length,  neither  can  be,  or  ought  to  be, 
all  poetry.  Yet  if  an  harmonious  whole  is  to  be  pro- 
duced, the  remaining  parts  must  be  preserved  in  keeping 
with  the  poetry  ;  and  this  can  be  no  otherwise  effected 
than  by  such  a  studied  selection  and  artificial  arrange- 


ment,  as  will  partake  of  07ie,  though  not  di  peculiar,  pro- 
perty of  poetry.  And  this,  again,  can  be  no  other  thin 
the  property  of  exciting  a  more  continuous  and  equal  at- 
tention, than  the  language  of  prose  aims  at,  whether 
colloquial  or  written. 

My  own  conclusions  on  the  nature  of  poetry,  in  the 
strictest  use  of  the  word,  have  been,  in  part,  anticipated 
in  the  preceding  disquisition  on  the  f^incy  and  imagination. 
What  is  poetry  ?  is  so  nearly  the  same  question  with, 
what  is  a  poet  ?  that  the  answer  to  the  one  is  involved 
in  the  solution  of  the  other.  For  it  is  a  distinction  re- 
sulting from  the  poetic  genius  itself,  v/hich  sustains  and 
modifies  the  images,  thoughts  and  emotions  of  the  poet'fi 
own  mind.  The  poet,  described  in  ideal  perfection, 
brings  the  whole  soul  of  man  into  activity,  with  the  sub- 
ordination of  its  faculties  to  each  other,  according  to  their 
relative  worth  and  dignity.  He  diffuses  a  tone  and 
spirit  of  unity,  that  blends,  and,  (as  it  were,)  fuses,  each 
into  each,  by  that  synthetic  and  magical  power,  to  which 
we  have  exclusively  appropriated  the  name  of  imagi- 
nation. This  power,  first  put  in  action  by  the  will  and 
understanding,  and  retained  under  their  irremissive, 
though  gentle  and  unnoticed,  controul,  {^laxis  effxrtur  ha- 
benis,)  reveals  itself  in  the  balance  or  reconciliation  of 
opposite  or  discordant  qualities  ;  of  sameness,  with  dif- 
ference ;  of  the  general,  with  the  concrete  ;  the  idea, 
with  the  image  ;  the  individual,  with  the  representative; 
the  sense  of  novelty  and  freshness,  with  old  and  familiar 
objects  ;  a  more  than  usual  state  of  emotion,  with  more 
than  usual  order  ;  judgment,  ever  awake,  and  steady  self 
possession,  with  enthusiasm  and  feeling  profound  or  ve- 
hement ;  and  while  it  blends  and  harmonizes  the  natural 
and  the  artificial,  still  subordinates  art  to  nature  ;  the 
manner  to  the  matter  :  and  our  admiration  of  the  poet  to 
our  sympathy  with  the  poetry.  *'  Doubtless,"  as  Sir  John 
Davies  observes  of  the  soul^  (and  his  words  may,  with 
slight  alteration,  be  applied,  and  even  more  appropriately, 
to  the  poetic  imagination  :) 

"  Doubtless  this  could  not  be,  but  that^she  turns 
Bodies  to  spirit  by  ^ablimation  strange. 
As  fire  converts  to  fire  the  things  it  burns. 
As  we  our  food  into  our  nature  change. 


10 

From  their  gross  matter  she  abstracts  their  forms. 
And  draws  a  kind  of  quintessence  from  things  : 
Which  to  her  proper  nature  she  transforms, 
To  bear  them  light  on  her  celestial  wings. 

Thus  does  she,  when  from  individual  states 
She  doth  abstract  the  universal  kinds ; 
Which  then,  re-clothed  in  divers  names  and  fates, 
Steal  access  through  our  senses  to  our  minds." 

Finally,  good  sense  is  the  body  of  poetic  genius,  fan- 
cy its  DRAPERY,  motion  its  LIFE,  and  imagination  the 
SOUL,  that  is  every  where,  and  in  each  ;  and  forms  aM 
into  one  graceful  and  intelligent  whole. 


11 


CHAPTER  XV. 

The  specific  symptoms  of  poetic  pozi)er  elucidated  in  a 
critical  analysis  of  Shakspeare's  Venus  and  Adonis,  and 
Lucrece, 

In  the  application  of  these  principles  to  purposes  of 
practical  criticism,  as  employed  in  the  appraisal  of  works 
more  or  less  imperfect,  1  have  endeayoured  to  discover 
nhat  the  qualities  in  a  poem  are,  which  may  be  deemed 
promises  and  specific  symptoms  of  poetic  power,  as  dis- 
tinguished from  general  talent  determined  to  poetic  com- 
position by  accidental  motives,  by  an  act  of  the  will, 
rather  than  by  the  inspiration  of  a  genial  and  productive 
nature.  In  this  in^  estigation,  I  could  not,  1  thought,  do 
better  than  keep  before  me  the  earliest  work  of  the 
greatest  genius  that,  perhaps,  human  nature  has  yet  pro- 
duced, our  myriad- minded^  Shakspeare.  I  mean  the 
*'  Venus  and  Adonis,"  and  the  "  Lucrece  ;"  works  which 
give  at  once  strong  promises  of  the  strength,  and  yet  ob- 
vious proofs  of  the  immaturity  of  his  genius.  From  these 
I  abstracted  the  following  marks,  as  characteristics  of 
original  poetic    genius  in  general. 

1.  In  the  "  Venus  and  Adonis,"  the  first  and  most  ob- 
vious excellence,  is  the  perfect  sweetness  of  the  versifi- 
cation ;  its  adaptation  to  the  subject  ;  and  the  power 
displayed  in  varying  the  march  of  the  words  without 
passing  into  a  loftier  and  more  majestic  rhythm  than  was 
demanded  by  the  thoughts,  or  permitted  by  the  propriety 
of  preserving  a  sense  of  melody  "predominant.  The  de- 
light in  richness  and  sweetness  of  sound,  even  to  a  faulty 
excess,  if  it  be  evidently  original,  and  not  the  result  of  an 
ensily  imitable  mechanism,  I  regard  as  a  highly  favoura- 
ble promise  in  the  compositions  of  a  young  man.  *  The 
man  that  hath  not  music  in  his  soul,"  can,  indeed,  never 
be  a  genuine  poet.     Imagery   (even  taken  from  nature, 

* 'AvT)(3  jiujiovSj,  a  phrase  which  I  have  borrowed  from  a  Greek  monk, 
nho  applies  it  to  a  Patriarch  of  Cocstfiiitinople.  I  might  have  said,  thai 
I  have  reclaimed,  rather  than  borrowed  it ;  for  it  seems  to  belong  to  Shak- 
speare, de  jure  singuiari,  et  ex  privileg^io  naturae. 


12 


1 


much  more  when  transplanted  from  books,  as  travels, 
Toyages,  and  works  of  natural  history)  affecting  incidents  ; 
jiist  thoughts  ;  interesting  personal  or  donae^tic  feelings.; 
and  with  these  the  art  of  their  comhination  or  intertex- 
ture  in  the  form  of  a  poem  ;  may  all,  bv  incessant  effort, 
be  acquired  as  a  trade,  by  a  man  of  talents  and  much 
reading,  who,  as  I  once  before  observed,  has  mistaken  aa 
intense  desire  of  poetic  reputation  for  a  natural  poetic 
genius  ;  the  love  of  the  arbitrary  end  for  a  possession  of 
the  peculiar  means.  But  the  .^ense  of  musical  delight, 
with  the  power  of  producing  it,  is  a  gift  of  imagination  ; 
and  this,  together  with  the  power  of  j  educing  multitude 
into  unity  of  effect,  and  modifjing  a  series  of  thoughts  by 
some  one  predominant  thought  or  feeling,  may  be  culti- 
rated  and  improved,  but  can  never  be  learnt.  It  is  in 
these  that  "  Poeta  nascitur  non  fit." 

2.  A  second  promise  of  genius  is  the  choice  of  subjects 
very  remote  from  the  private  interests  and  circumstan- 
ces of  the  writer  himself.  At  least  I  have  found,  that 
where  the  subject  is  taken  immediately  from  the  author's 
personal  sensations  and  experiences,  the  exc'  Hence  of  a 
particular  poem  is  but  an  equivocal  maik,  and  often  a 
fallacious  pledge,  of  genuine  poetic  power.  We  may, 
perhaps,  remember  the  tale  of  the  statuary,  who  had  ac- 
quired considerable  reputation  for  the  lej^s  of  his  god- 
desses, though  the  rest  of  the  statue  accorded  but  indiffe- 
rently with  ideal  beauty,  till  his  wife,  elated  by  her  hus- 
band's praises,  modestly  acknowledged,  that  she  herself 
had  been  his  constant  model.  In  the  Venus  and  Adonis, 
this  proof  of  poetic  power  exists  even  to  excess.  It  is 
throughout  as  if  a  superior  spirit,  more  intuitive,  more 
intimately  conscious,  even  than  the  characters  them- 
selves, not  only  of  every  outward  look  and  act,  but  of 
the  flux  and  reflux  of  the  mind  in  all  its  subtlest  thoughts 
and  feelings,  were  placing  thejvhole  before  our  view  ; 
himself,  meanwhile,  un participating  in  the  passions,  and 
actuated  only  by  that  pleasurable  excitement,  which  had 
resfjklted  from  the  energetic  fervor  of  his  own  spirit  in  so 
vividly  exhibiting  what  it  had  so  accurately  and  profound- 
ly contemplated.  I  think  I  should  have  conjectured 
from  these  poems,  that  even  then  the  great  instinct,  which 
impelled  the  poet  to  the  drama,  was  secretly  workinq;  in 
him,  prompting  him  by  a  series  and  never-broken  chain 


13 

of  imagery,  always  vivid  and  because  unbroken,  oflen 
minute  ;  by  the  highest  effort  of  the  picturesque  in 
words,  of  which  words  are  capable,  higher,  perhaps,  than 
w^as  ever  realized  by  any  other  poet,  even  Dante  not 
excepted  ;  to  provide  a  substitute  for  that  visual  lan- 
guage, that  constant  intervention  and  running  comment, 
by  tone,  look  and  gesture,  which  in  his  dramatic  works 
he  was  entitled  to  expect  from  the  players.  His  '*  Ve- 
nus and  Adonis"  seem  at  once  the  characters  themselves, 
and  the  whole  representation  of  those  characters  by  the 
most  consummate  actors.  You  seem  to  be  told  nothing, 
but  to  see  and  hear  every  thing.  Hence  it  is,  that  from 
the  perpetual  activity  of  attention  required  on  the  part  of 
the  reader  ;  from  the  rapid  flow,  the  quick  change,  and 
the  playful  nature  of  the  thoughts  and  images  ;  and,  above 
all,  from  the  alienation,  and,  if  I  may  hazard  such  an  ex- 
pression, the  utter  aloofness  of  the  poet's  own  feelings, 
from  those  of  which  he  is  at  once  the  painter  and  the 
analyst ;  that  though  the  very  subject  cannot  but  detract 
from  the  pleasure  of  a  delicate  mind,  yet  never  was 
poem  less  dangerous  on  a  moral  account.  Instead  of 
doing  as  Ariosto,  and  as,  still  more  offensively,  Wieland 
has  done  ;  instead  of  degrading  and  deforming  passion  into 
appetite,  the  trials  of  love  into  the  struggles  of  concupis- 
cence, Shakespeare  has  here  represented  the  animal 
impulse  itself,  so  as  to  preclude  all  sympathy  with  it,  by 
dissipating  the  reader's  notice  among  the  thousand  out- 
ward images,  and  now  beautiful,  now  fanciful  circumstan- 
ces, which  form  its  dresses  and  its  scenery  ;  or  by  di- 
verting our  attention  from  the  main  subject  by  those  fre- 
quent witty  or  profound  reflections,  which  the  poet's 
ever  active  mind  has  deduced  from,  or  connected 
with,  the  imagery  and  the  incidents.  The  reader  is 
forced  into  too  much  action  to  sympathize  with  the 
merely  passive  of  our  nature.  As  little  can  a  mind  thus 
roused  and  awakened  be  brooded  on  by  mean  and  indis- 
tinct emotion,  as  the  low,  lazy  mist  can  creep  upon  the 
surface  of  a  lake,  while  a  strong  gale  is  driving  it  onward 
in  waves  and  billows. 

3.  It  has  been  before  observed,  that  images,  however 
beautiful,  though  faithfully  copied  from  nature,  and  as 
accurately  represeated  in  words,  do  not  of  themselves 
characterize  the  poet.     They  become  proofs  of  original 


14 

s^enius  ouly,  as  far  as  they  are  moiJtlied  by  a  predomi- 
nant passion  ;  or  by  associated  thoughts  or  images  awa- 
kened by  that  passion  ;  or,  when  they  have  the  effect 
of  reducing  multitude  to  unity,  or  succession  to  an  in- 
stant ;  or,  lastly,  when  a  human  and  intellectual  life  is 
transferred  to  them  from  the  poet's  own  spirit, 

**  Which  shoots  its  being*  through  earth,  sea,  and  air." 

In  the  two  following  lines,  for  instance,  there  is  nothing 
objectionable,  nothing  which  would  preclude  them  from 
forming,  in  their  proper  place,  part  of  a  descriptive 
poem  : 

**  Behold  yon  row  of  pines,  that,  shorn  and  bow'd, 
Bend  from  the  sea-blast,  seen  at  twilight  eve." 

But  with  the  small  alteration  of  rhythm,  the  same  words 
would  be  equally  in  their  place  in  a  book  of  topography, 
or  in  a  descriptive  tour.  The  same  image  will  rise  in- 
to a  semblance  of  poetry  if  thus  conveyed  ; 

*^  Yon  row  of  bleak  and  visionary  pines. 
By  twiiig-ht-glimpse  discerned,  mark !  how  they  flee 
From  the  fierce  sea-blast,  all  their  tresses  wild 
Streaming  before  them." 

I  have  given  this  as  an  illustration,  by  no  means  as  an 
"instance,  of  that  particular  excellence  which  I  had  in 
view,  and  in  which  Shakspeare,  even  in  his  earliest,  as 
in  his  latest  works,  surpasses  all  other  poets.  It  is  by 
this,  that  he  still  gives  a  dignity  and  a  passion  to  the  ob- 
jects which  he  presents.  Unaided  by  any  previous  ex- 
citement, they  burst  upon  us  at  once  in  life  and  in 
power. 

**  Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Flatter  the  mountain  tops  with  sovereign  eye.*^ 

Shakspeaie's  Sonnet  33rd. 

"  Not  mine  own  fears,  nor  the  prophetic  soul 
Of  the  wide  world  dreaming  on  things  to  come — 

The  mortal  moon  hath  her  eclipse  endur'd. 


19 

And  the  sad  augurs  mock  their  own  presag-e ; 

Incertainties  now  crown  themselves  assur'd, 

And  peace  proclaims  olives  of  endless  ag^e. 

2Vow  with  the  drops  of  this  most  balmy  time 

My  Love  looks  fresh  :  and  Death  to  me  subscribes* 

Since  spite  of  him,  I'll  live  in  this  poor  rhyme. 

While  he  insults  o'er  dull  and  speechless  tribes. 

And  thou  in  this  shalt  find  thy  monument, 

When  tyrant's  crests,  and  tombs  of  brass  are  spent. 

Sonnet  lor. 

As  of  higher  worth,  so  doubtless  still  more  character- 
istic of  poetic  genius  does  the  imagery  become,  when  it 
moulds  and  colours  itself  to  the  circumstances,  passion, 
or  character,  present  and  foremost  in  the  mind.  For 
unrivalled  instances  of  this  excellence,  rhe  reader's  own 
memory  will  refer  him  to  the  Lear,  Othello,  in  short, 
to  which  not  of  the  ^^  great,  ever  living,  dead  mail's'''  dra- 
matic works  ?  Inopem  me  copia  fecit.  How  true  it  is 
to  nature,  he  has  himself  finely  expressed  in  the  instance 
of  love  in  Sonnet  98. 

**  From  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring,  : 

When  proud  pied  April,  drest  in  all  its  trim. 

Hath  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  every  thing*; 

That  heavy  Saturn  laugh'd  and  leap'd  with  him. 

Yet  nor  the  lays  of  birds,  nor  the  sweet  smell 

Oi  different  flowers  in  odour  and  in  hue, 

Could  make  me  any  summer's  story  tell, 

Or  from  their  proud  lap  phick  them,  where  they. grew  ? 

iVor  did  I  wonder  at  the  lilies  white. 

Nor  praise  the  deep  vermilion  in  the  rose  ; 

They  were,  tho'  sweet,  but  figures  of  delight, 

Drawn  after  you,  you  pattern  of  all  those. 

Yet  seemM  it  winter  still,  and  you  away, 

As  with  your  shadow  I  with  these  did  filay  I 

Scarcely  less  sure,  or  if  a  less  valuable,  not  less  in- 
dispensable mark 


Fovi^«   ptv  IT0ITIT8- 


-ccriJ  jnpta  ycvvaiovAaxoi, 


Will  the  imagery  supply,  when,  with  jnore  than  the  pow- 
er of  the  painter,  the  poet  gives  us  the  liveliest  image 
of  succession  with  the  feehng  of  simultaneousness  1 


16 

With  this  he  breaketli  from  the  sweet  embrace 
Of  those  fair  aims,  tliat  held  him  to  her  heart. 
And  homeward  throug-h  the  dark  lawns  runs  apace  : 
Look  hoin  a  br':ght  star  shooteth  from  the  sky ! 
So  glides  he  through  the  night  from  Venus'  eye, 

4.  The  last  character  I  shall  mention,  which  would 
prove  indeed  but  little,  except  as  taken  conjointly  with 
the  former  ;  yet,  without  which  the  former  could  scarce 
exist  in  a  high  degree,  and  (even  if  this  were  possible) 
would  give  promises  only  of  transitory  flashes  and  a  me- 
teoric power,  is  depth,  and  energy  of  thought.  No 
man  was  ever  yet  a  great  poet,  without  being  at  the 
same  time  a  profound  philosopher.  For  poetry  is  the 
blossom  and  the  fragrancy  of  all  human  knowledge,  hu- 
man thoughts,  human  passions,  emotions,  language.  In 
Shakspeare's  |}0€m5,  the  creative  power,  and  the  intellec- 
tual energy  wrestle  as  in  a  war  embrace.  Each  in  its 
excess  of  strength  seems  lo  threaten  the  extinction  of  the 
other.  At  length,  in  the  drama  they  were  reconciled, 
and  fought  each  with  its  shield  before  the  breast  of  the 
other.  Or,  like  two  rapid  streams,  that  at  their  first 
meeting  within  narrow  and  rocky  banks,  mutually  strive 
to  repel  each  other,  and  intermix  reluctantly  and  in  tu- 
mult ;  but  soon  finding  a  wider  channel  and  more  yield- 
ing shores,  blend,  and  dilate,  and  flow  on  in  one  current 
and  with  one  voice.  The  Venus  and  Adonis  did  not, 
perhaps,  allow  the  display  of  the  deeper  passions.  But 
the  story  of  Lucretia  seems  to  favour,  and  even  demand 
their  intensest  workings.  And  yet  we  find  in  Shakspeare^s 
management  of  the  tale  neither  pathos,  nor  any  other 
dramatic  quality.  There  is  the  same  minute  and  faith- 
ful imagery  as  in  the  former  poem,  in  the  same  vivid 
colours,  inspirited  by  the  same  impetuous  vigour  of 
thought,  and  diverging  and  contracting  with  the  same  ac- 
tivity of  the  assimilative  and  of  the  modifying  faculties  ; 
and  with  a  yet  larger  displiy,  a  yet  wider  range  of  know- 
ledge and  reflection  ;  and,  lastly,  with  the  same  perfect 
dominion,  often  domination^  over  the  whole  world  of 
language.  What  then  shall  we  say  ?  even  this  ;  that 
Shakspeare,  no  mere  child  of  nature  ;  no  automaton  of 
genius  ;  no  passive  vehicle  of  inspiration  possessed  by 
the  spirit,  not  possessing  it  ;  first  studied  patiently,  me- 
ditated deeply,  understood  minutely,  uU  koQwledge,  be- 


17 

come  habitual  and  intuitive,  wedded  itself  to  his  habitual 
feehngs,  and  at  length  gave  birth  to  that  stupendous  pow- 
er, by  which  he  stands  alone,  with  no  equal  or  second 
in  his  own  class  ;  to  that  power,  which  seated  him  on 
one  of  the  two  glory-smitten  summits  of  the  poetic  moun- 
tain, with  Milton  as  his  compeer,  not  rival.  While  the 
former  darts  himself  forth,  and  passes  into  all  the  forms 
of  human  character  and  passion,  the  one  Proteus  of  tlje 
fire  and  the  flood  ;  the  other  attracts  all  forms  and  things 
to  himself,  into  the  unity  of  his  own  ideal.  All  things 
and  modes  of  action  shape  themselves  anew  in  the  being 
of  Milton  ;  while  Shakspeare  becomes  all  things,  yet 
for  ever  remaining  himself.  O  what  great  men  hast  thou 
not  produced,  England  !  my  country  !  truly  indeed — 

Must  we  be  free  or  die,  who  speak  the  tongue, 
Which  Shakspeare  spake  ;  the  faith  and  morals  hold, 
Which  Milton  held.     In  every  thing  we  are  spruDg 
Of  earth's  first  bloodj  have  titles  manifold  ! 

Wordsworth, 


^ 


IB 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Striking  points  of  dijference  between  the  Poets  of  the  present 
age  and  those  of  the  \5th  and  \6ih  centuries — Wish  ex- 
pressed for  the  union  of  the  characteristic  merits  of  both, 

Christendom,  from  its  first  settlement  on  feudal  rights^ 
has  been  so  far  one  great  body,  however  imperfectly 
organized,  that  a  similar  spirit  will  be  found  in  each  pe- 
riod to  have  been  acting  in  all  its  members.  The  study 
of  Shakspeare's  poems  (I  do  not  include  his  dramatic 
U'orks,  eminently  as  they  too  deserve  that  title)  led  me 
to  a  more  careful  examination  of  the  contemporary  poets 
both  in  this  and  in  other  countries.  But  my  attention 
was  especially  fixed  on  those  of  Italy,  from  the  birth  to 
the  death  of  Shakspeare  ;  that  being  the  country  in 
which  the  fine  arts  had  been  most  sedulously,  and,  hi- 
therto, most  successfully  cultivated.  Abstracted  from  the 
degrees  and  peculiarities  of  individual  genius,  the  pro- 
perties common  to  the  good  writers  of  each  period  seem 
to  establish  one  striking  point  of  difference  between  the 
poetry  of  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries,  and  that 
of  the  present  age.  The  remark  may,  perhaps,  be  ex- 
tended to  the  sister  art  of  painting.  At  least,  the  latter 
will  serve  to  illustrate  the  former.  In  the  present  age, 
&\e  poet  (I  would  wish  to  be  understood  as  speaking  ge- 
nerally, and  without  allusion  to  individual  names)  seems 
to  propose  to  himself  as  his  main  object,  and  as  that 
which  is  the  most  characteristic  of  his  art,  new  and 
striking  images,  with  incidents  that  interest  the  affec- 
tions or  excite  the  curiosity.  Both  his  characters  and 
his  descriptions  he  renders,  as  much  as  possible,  spe- 
cific and  individual,  even  to  a  degree  of  portraiture.  In 
his  diction  and  metre,  on  the  other  hand,  he  is  compa- 
ratively careles?.  The  measure  is  either  constructed  on 
no  previous  system,  and  acknowledges  no  justifying  prin- 
ciple but  that  of  the  writer's  convenience  ;  or  else  some 
mechanical  movement  is  adopted,  of  which  one  couplet 
or  stanza  is  so  far  an  adequate  specimen,  as  that  the  oc- 
casional differences  appear  evidently  to  arise  from  acci- 
dent, or  the  cj^ualities  of  the  language  itself,  not  from  me- 


19 

ditation  and  an  intelligent  purpose.  And  the  language 
from  "  Pope's  translation  of  Homer,"  to  *'  Darwin's  Tem- 
ple of  Nature,"  may,  notwithstanding  some  illustrious 
exceptions,  be  too  faithtV.lly  characterized,  as  claiming 
to  be  poetical  for  no  better  reason,  than  that  it  would  be 
intolerable  in  conversation  or  in  prose.  Though  alas  ! 
even  our  prose  writings,  nay,  even  the  stile  of  our  more 
set  discourses,  strive  to  be  in  the  fashion,  and  trick  them- 
selves out  in  the  soiled  and  over-worn  finery  of  the  me- 
retricious muse.  It  is  true,  that  of  late  a  great  improve- 
ment in  this  respect  is  observable  in  our  most  popular 
writers.  But  it  is  equally  true,  that  this  recurrence  to 
plain  sense,  and  genuine  mother  English,  is  far  from  be- 
ing general  ;  and  that  the  composition  of  our  novels, 
magazines,  public  harangues,  &c-  is  commonly  as  trivial 
in  thought,  and  enigmatic  in  expression,  as  if  Echo  and 
Sphinx  had  laid  their  heads  together  to  construct  it. 
Nay,  even  of  those  who  have  most  rescued  themselves 
from  this  contagion,  I  should  plead  inwardly  guilty  to 
the  charge  of  duplicity  or  cowardice,  if  I  withheld  my 
conviction,  that  fev/  have  guarded  the  purity  of  their  na- 
tive tongue  with  that  jealous  care  which  the  sublime 
Dante,  in  his  tract  '*  De  la  nobile  volgare  eloquenza," 
declares  to  be  the  first  duty  of  a  poet.  For  language  is 
the  armoury  of  the  human  mind  ;  and  at  once  contains 
the  trophies  of  its  past,  and  the  weapons  of  its  future 
conquests.  ''  Animadverte,  quam  sit  ab  improprietate 
verborum  pronum  hominibus  prolabi  in  errores  circa 
res  !"  HoBBES  :  Exam,  et  Exmend,  hod.  Math. — "  Sat 
vero,  in  hac  vitae  brevitate  et  naturae  obscuritate,  rerum 
est,  quibus  cognoscendis  tempus  impendatur,  ut  confusis 
et  multivocis  sermonibus  intelligendis  illud  consumere 
Hon  opus  est.  Eheu  !  quantas  strages  paravere  verba 
nubila,  quae  tot  dicunt,  ut  nihil  dicunt — nubes  potius,  e 
quibus  et  in  rebus  politicis  et  in  ecclesia  turbines  et 
tonitrua  erumpunt !    Et  proinde  recte  dictum  putamus  a 

Platone  in  Gorgia  :    oj  av  to  ovojiaTa  fi^ei,  iccrai  xa»  ra  iT^a<y\iaia  :  et 

ab   Epicteto,  ctpxn  ai<5£uo'fcoj  n  wv  ovo^iartovfTrio-xsAlu  :   et  pruden- 

tissime  GalenuS  SCribit,  ^  twv  ovojiaTCov  xpricns  rrapax^ficra  xairnv  tcov 

frpa7pLaTcovf7riTopaT7£i  7VC0O-1V  Egregie  vero  J.  C  Scali'ier,  in 
Lib.  1.  de  Plantis  :  Est  priinum,  inqbit,  sapientis  officiurriy 
bene  sentire,  nt  sibi  vivat  :  proximiini^  bene  loquiy  ut  pa^ 
tri(£  vivat,''^     Sennertus  de  Puis:  Di/ferentid* 


20 

Something  analogous  to  the  materials  and  structure  of 
modern  poetry  1  seem  to  have  noticed  (but  here  1  beg  to 
be  understood  as  speaking  with  tlie  utmost  diflidence)  in 
our  common  landsca^  a  painters.  Their  foregrounds  and 
intermediate  distances  are  comparatively  unattractive  : 
while  the  main  interest  of  the  landscape  is  thrown  into 
the  back  ground,  where  mountains  and  torrents  and  cas- 
tles forbid  the  eye  to  proceed,  and  nothing  tempts  it  to 
trace  its  way  back  again.  But  in  the  works  of  the  great 
Italian  and  Flemish  masters,  the  front  and  middle  objects 
of  the  landscape  are  the  most  obvious  and  determinate, 
the  interest  gradually  dies  away  in  the  back  ground, 
and  the  charm  and  peculiar  worth  of  the  picture  consists, 
not  so  much  in  the  specific  objects  whica  it  conveys  to 
the  understanding  in  a  visual  language  formed  by  the 
substitution  of  figures  for  words ^  as  in  the  beauty  and  har- 
mony of  the  colours,  lines,  and  expression,  with  which  the 
objects  are  represented.  Hence  novelty  of  subject  was 
rather  avoided  than  soug^ht  for.  Superior  excellence,  in 
the  manner  of  treating  the  same  subjects,  was  the  trial 
and  test  of  the  artist's  merit. 

Not  otherwise  is  it  with  the  more  polished  poets  of  the 
15th  and  16th  century,  especially  with  those  of  Italy. 
The  imagery  is  almost  always  general  :  sun,  moon,  flow- 
ers, breezes,  murmuring  streams,  warbhng  songsters,  de- 
licious shades,  lovely  damsels,  cruel  as  fair,  nymphs^ 
naiads,  and  goddesses,  are  the  materials  which  are  coift- 
mon  to  all,  and  which  each  shaped  and  arranged  accord- 
ing to  his  judgment  or  fancy,  little  solicitous  to  add  or 
to  particularize.  If  we  make  an  honourable  exception  in 
favour  of  some  Enghsh  poets,  the  thoughts  too  are  as 
little  novel  as  the  images  ;  and  the  fable  of  their  narra- 
tive poems,  for  the  most  part  draw^n  from  mythology,  or 
sources  of  equal  notoriety,  derive  their  chief  attractions 
from  their  manner  of  treating  them  ;  from  impassioned 
ilow,  or  picturesque  arrangement.  In  opposition  to  the 
present  a^^e,  and  perhaps  in  as  faulty  an  extreme,  they 
placed  the  essence  of  poetry  in  the  art.  The  excellence 
at  whicii  they  aimed  consisted  in  the  exquisite  polish  of 
the  diction,  coiiibined  with  perfect  simplicity.  This  their 
prime  object,  th^y  attained  by  the  avoidance  of  every  word 
which  a  gentlemar,  would  ttot  use  in  dignified  conversation, 
and  of  every  word  and  phrase,  wliich  none  but  sl  learned 


21 

itian  would  use  ;  by  the  studied  position  of  words  and 
phrases,  so  that  not  only  each  part  should  be  melodious^ 
in  itself,  but  contribute  to  the  harmony  of  the  whole, 
each  note  referring  and  conducing  to  the  melody  of  all 
the  foregoing  and  following  words  of  the  same  period  or 
stanza  ;  and,  lastly,  with  equal  labour,  the  greater  because 
unbetrayed,  by  the  variation  and  various  harmonies  of 
their  metrical  movement.  Their  measures,  however, 
were  not  indebted  for  their  variety  to  the  introduction 
of  new  metres,  such  as  have  been  attempted  of  late  in 
the  *'  Alonzo  and  Imogen,"  and  others  borrowed  from  the 
German,  having  in  their  very  mechanism  a  specific  over- 
powering tune,  to  which  the  generous  reader  humours 
his  voice  and  emphasis,  with  more  indulgence  to  the  au- 
thor than  attention  to  the  meaning  or  quantity  of  the 
words  ;  but  which  to  an  ear  familiar  with  the  numerous 
sounds  of  the  Greek  and  Roman  poets,  has  an  effect  not 
unlike  that  of  galloping  over  a  paved  road  in  a  German 
stage-waggon  without  springs.  On  the  contrary,  our  el- 
der bards  both  of  Italy  and  England  produced  a  far  greater, 
as  well  as  more  charming  variety,  by  countless  modifica- 
tions, and  subtle  balances  of  sound,  in  the  common  metres 
of  their  country.  A  lasting  and  enviable  reputation 
awaits  the  man  of  genius,  who  should  attempt  and  realize 
a  union  ;  who  should  recall  the  high  finish  ;  the  appro- 
priateness ;  the  faciUty  ;  the  delicate  proportion  ;  and, 
above  all,  the  perfusive  and  omnipresent  grace,  which 
have  preserved,  as  in  a  shrine  of  precious  amber,  the 
"  Sparrow"  of  Catullus,  the  ''  Swallow,"  the  *'  Grasshop- 
per," and  all  the  other  little  loves  of  Anacreon  :  and 
which  with  bright,  though  diminished  glories,  revisited 
the  youth  and  early  manhood  of  christian  Europe,  in  the 
Vales  of  Arno,*^  and  the  groves  of  Isis  and  of  Cam  ;  and 

*  These  thoughts  were  sug-gested  to  me  during-  the  perusal  of  the  Ma- 
drigals of  Giovambati-ta  Str-zzi,  published  in  Florence  (nella  Stamperia 
d(-l  Sermartelh)  1st  May,  1593,  by  his  sons  Lorenzo  and  f'ilippo  Strozzi, 
with  a  dedication  to  their  deceased  patc^rnal  unch^  ''  Siirnor  Leone  Strozzi, 
Generale  delle  battaligie  di  Santa  Chiesa/*  As  i  do  not  remember  to  have 
seen  either  the  poems^jr  their  author  mentioned  in  any  English  U'ork,  or 
have  found  them  in  any  of  the  common  collections  of  Itiuian  poetry,  and 
as  (lie  little  work  is  of  rare  oc  cur;e/u  e,  I  will  transcribe  a  few  specimens. 
I  have  seldom  nri  with  :  ompositio*is  that  possessed,  to  my  feelings, 
more  of  that  satisfying  entireness,  that  complete  adequateness  of  the  man- 
ner to  the  matter  which  so  chai-ms  us  in  Anaceron,  iolned  with  the  ten- 
derness, and  more  than  the  delicacy  of  Catullus.  Trilles  as  tl  ev  are,  they 
were  proouoly  elaborated  with  great  cart ',  yet  in  the  perusiil  we  refer 


22 

who  with  these  should  combine  the  keener  interest, 
deeper  pathos,  manlier  reflection,   and  the  fresher  and 

them  to  a  spontaneous  enerprv  rather  than  to  voluntary  effort.  To  a  cul- 
tivated taste  there  i^  a  delifrht  in  perfeclinn  for  its  own  sake,  independent 
of  the  material  in  which  it  is  nnanifestcd,  that  none  but  a  cultivated  taste 
can  iindersfand  or  appreciate. 

After  vv hat  1  have  advanced,  it  would  appear  pre&umption  fo  offer  a 
translHiion  ;  even  if  the  attempt  was  not  discourag:ed  by  the  different 
genius  of  the  Enjrlish  mind  and  lanpruaofe,  which  demands  a  denser  body 
of  thought  as  the  condition  of  a  high  polish,  than  the  Italian.  I  cannot 
but  deem  it  likewise  an  advantage  in  the  Italian  tongue,  in  many  other 
respects  inferior  to  our  own,  that  the  language  of  poetry  is  more  distinct 
from  that  of  prose  than  with  us.  From  the  earlier  appearance  and  esta- 
blished primacy  of  the  Tuscan  poets,  concurrinji;  with  the  number  of  in- 
dependent states,  and  the  diversity  of  written  dialects,  the  Italians  have 
gamed  a  poetic  idiom,  as  the  Greeks  before  them  had  obtained  from  the 
same  causes,  with  greater  and  more  various  discrimiaations — ex.  gr.  the 
ionic  for  their  heroic  verses  ;  the  attic  for  their  iambic  ;  Vii\d  the  two 
modes  of  the  doric,  the  lyric  or  sacerdotal,  and  the  pastoral,  the  distinc- 
tions of  which  were  doubtless  more  obvious  to  the  Greeks  themselves 
than  they  are  to  us. 

I  will  venture  to  add  one  other  observation  before  I  proceed  to  the 
transcription.  I  am  aware,  that  the  sentiments  which  I  have  avowed  con- 
cerning the  points  of  diilerence  between  the  poetry  of  tlie  jiresent  age, 
and  that  of  the  period  between  1,500  and  1650,  are  the  reverse  of  the 
opinion  commonly  entertained.  I  was  conversing  on  this  subject  with  a 
friend,  when  the  servant,  a  worthy  and  sensible  vvoman,  coming  in,  I 
placed  before  her  two  engravings, 'the  one  a  pinky-coloured  plate  of  the 
day,  the  other  a  masterly  etching  by  Salvator  Kosa,  from  one  of  his  owa 
pictures.  On  pressing  her  to  tell  us,  which  she  preferred,  after  a  little 
blushing  and  flutter  of  feelinof,  she  replied — why,  that  Sir!  to  be  sure  ? 
(pointinsr  to  the  ware,  from  the  Fleet-street  print  shops)  It's  so  n«a<andele- 
g-ant.  T'other  is  such  a  5fro/rA^  slovenly  thing."  An  artist,  whose  wri- 
tings are  scarcely  less  valuable  than  his  works,  and  to  whose  authority 
more  deference  will  be  wiilinglv  paid-,  than  I  could  even  wish  should  be 
shown  to  mine,  has  told  us,  and  from  his  own  experience  too,  that  good 
taste  must  be  acquired,  and  like  all  other  good  things,  is  the  result  of 
thought,  and  thp  subrriissive  study  of  the  best  models.  If  it  be  asked^ 
"  But  what  shall  1  deem  such  ?"  the  answer  is  :  presume  these  to  be  the 
best,  the  repututiMi  of  which  has  been  matured  into/a/we  by  the  consent  of 
ages.  For  wisdom  ahva\  s  has  a  final  majority,  if  not  by  conviction,  yet 
by  acquiescence.  In  addition  to  Sir  J.  Reynolds,  I  may  mention  Harris 
©f  Salisbury,  who  in  one  of  his  philosophical  disquisitions,  has  writlcn  on. 
the  means  of^accpiiring  a  just  taste  with  ttie  precision  of  Aristotle,  aad  tlifr 
elegance  of  Quintiilian. 

MADRTGALE. 

Gelido  sno  ruscel  chiaro,  e  tranquillo 
IVrinseg^no  Amor,  di  state  a  mezzo'l  griorno  : 
Ardaen  ie  selve,  ardeao  le  piagg-e,  e  i  colli. 
Ond  'io,  cb' al  piu  gran  gieloardo  e  sfaviiio, 
Subito  corsi  ;  ma  si  puro  adorno 
Girsene  il  vidi,  cheturbar  no'l  volli  ; 
Sol  mi  specchiava,  e'n  dolce  ombrosa  sponda 
JVii  stava  inteato  al  mormorar  deir  onda. 


23 

more  various  imagery,  which  give    a  value  and  a  name 
that  will  not  pass  away  to  the  poets  who  have  done  ho- 

MADRIGALE. 

Anre  dell'  an^oscioso  viver  mio 

Refrig-erio  soave, 

E  dolce  si,  che  piu  noa  mi  par  grave 

Ne'l  arder,  ne'I  morir,  anz' ii  de.io; 

Deh  voiMghiaccio,  e  le  nubi,  e'l  tempo  rio 

Digcacciateue  omai,  che  I'onde  chiara, 

E  1'  ombra  non  men  cara 

A  sceerzare,  e  cantar  per  suoi  boschetti 

E  prati  Festa  ed  Allegrezza  alletti. 

MADRIGALE 

Pacifiche,  ma  spesso  in  amorosa 

Guerra  co'fiori,  el'  erba 

Alia  stagione  acerba 

Verde  Insegne  del  g'ig'lio  e  della  rosa 

Movete,  Aure.  pian  pian  :  che  tregna  o  posa>, 

Se  non  pace,  io  ritrove; 

E  so  ben  dove — Oh  vag-o,  mansueto 

Sguardo,  oh  labbrad'ambrosia,  oh  rider  lieto! 

MADRIGALE*   ^ 

Hor  come  un  Scog^lio  stassi, 

IHor  come  un  Rio  se'n  fug-^e 

Ed  hor  crud'  Orsa  rugge, 

Horcanta  Angelo  pio  :  ma  che  non  fassi  ? 

E  che  non  fammi,  O  Sassi, 

O  Rivi,  o  belve,  o  Dii,  questa  mia  vaga 

Non  so,  se  Niofa,  o  Mag-a, 

Non  so,  se  Donna,  o  Dea, 

Non  so,  se  dolce  6  rear* 

MADRTGALEo 

Piang-endo  mi  baciaste, 
E  ridendo  il  neg-aste  : 
Indoglia  hebbivi  pia, 
In  festa  hebbivi  ria  : 
Nacque  Gioia  di  pianti, 
Dolor  di  riso  :  O  amanti 
Miseri,  habbiate  iusierniB 
OffnorPaurae  Speme- 


24 

Dour  to  our  own  times,  and  to  those  of  our  immediate 
predecessors. 

MADRIGALE. 

Bel  Fior,  tu  mi  rimembri 

La  riigiadosa  g^uancia  del  bel  vise  ; 

E  si  vera  I'assembri, 

Che'n  te  sovente,  come  in  lei  m'affiso  : 

Ed  hor  dell  vago  riso, 

Hor  dell  sereno  s^^uardo 

lo  purcieco  risg-uardo.     Ma  qual  fugge, 

O  Rosa,  il  maltin  lieve  ? 

E  chi  te,  come  neve, 

E'l  raio  cor  teco,  e  la  mia  vita  strugge.  i 

MADRIGALE.  I 

Anna  mia,  Anna  dolce,  oh  sempre  nuovo 

E  pin  chiaro  conceoto. 

Quanta  dolcezza  sento 

In  sol  Ant^a  dicendo?  lomi  par  pruovo, 

Ne  qui  tra  noi  ritruo\:o, 

jVe  tra  cieli  armonia, 

Cbe  del  bel  nome  suo  piu  dolce  sia  : 

Altro  il  Cielo,  altro  Amore, 

Altro  non  suona  i'Eco  del  mio  core. 

MADRIGALE. 

Horche'l  prato,  e  la  selva  si  scolora, 

Al  tuo  Sereno  ombroso 

Muovine,  alto  Riposo ! 

Deh  ch  'io  riopsi  una  sol  notte,  un  bora ! 

Han  le  fere,  e  gh  augelli,  ognun  talora 

Ha  qualcbe  pace  ;  io  quando, 

Lasso  !  non  vonne  errando, 

E  non  piango,  enon  grido?  equal  pur  forte f 

Ma  poiche  non  sente  egli,  odine,  Morte  i 

MADRIGALE. 

Risi  e  piansi  d'Amor ;  ne  per6  mai 

Se  non  in  fiamma,  6  'n  onda,  6  'n  vento  scrissi ; 

Spesso  merce  trovai 

Crudel ;  sempre  in  me  morto,  in  altri  vissi ! 

Hor  da'  piu  scuri  abyssi  al  Ciel  m'alzai, 

Hor  ne  pur  caddi  giuso  : 

Stanco  al  fin  qui  son  chiuso ! 


CHAPTER  XVIi. 

Examination  of  the  tenets  peculiar  to  Mr  Wordswofih-^ 
Rustic  life  {above  all^  low  and  rustic  life,)  especially 
unfavourable  to  the  formation  of  a  human  diction — The 
best  parts  of  language  the  product  of  philosophers^  not 
clowns  or  shepherds — Poetry  essentially  ideal  and  gene- 
ric— The  language  of  Milton  as  much  the  language  of 
real  life,  yea^  incomparably  more  so  than  that  of  the 
cottager. 

As  far,  then,  as  Mr.  Wordsworth  in  bis  preface  contend- 
ed, and  most  ablj  contended,  for  a  reformation  in  our  po- 
etic diction,  as  far  as  he  has  evinced  the  truth  of  passion, 
and  the  dramatic  propriety  of  those  figures  and  meta- 
phors in  the  original  poets,  which,  stript  of  their  justifying 
reason*,  and  converted  into  mere  artitices  of  connexion 
or  ornament,  constitute  the  characteristic  falsity  in  the 
poetic  style  of  the  moderns  ;  and,  as  far  as  he  has,  with 
equal  acuteness  and  clearness,  pointed  out  the  process  in 
which  this  change  was  effected,  and  the  resemblances  be- 
tween that  state  into  which  the  reader's  mind  is  thrown 
by  the  plea.^urable  confusion  of  thought,  from  an  unac- 
customed train  of  words  and  images  ;  and  that  state  which 
is  induced  by  the  natural  language  of  empassioned  feel- 
ing ;  he  undertook  a  useful  task,  and  deserves  all  praise, 
both  for  the  attempt,  and  for  the  execution.  The  provo- 
cations to  this  remonstrance,  in  behalf  of  truth  and  nature, 
were  still  of  perpetual  recurrence,  before,  and  after  the 
publication  of  this  preface  I  cannot,  likewise,  but  add, 
that  the  comparison  of  such  poems  of  merit,  as  have  been 
given  to  the  public,  within  the  last  ten  or  twelve  years, 
with  the  majority  of  those  produced  previously  to  the 
appearance  of  that  preface,  leave  no  doubt  on  my  mind, 
that  Mr  Wordsworth  is  fully  justified  in  believing  bis  ef 
forts  to  have  been  by  no  means  ineffectual.  Not  only 
in  the  verses  of  those  who  have  professed  their  admira- 
tion of  his  eenius,  but  even  of  those  who  have  distinguish- 
ed themselves  by  hostility  to  his  theory,  and  dcpreciatioD 

Vol.  II.  3 


26  ^ 

of  his  writings,  are  the  impressions  of  his  principles  plain- 
\y  visible       It  is  possible,  that  with  these  principles  others 
jnay  have  been  blended,  which  are  not  equally  evident  ; 
and   some  which  are  unsteady  and    subvertible   from  the 
narrowness  or  imperfection  of  their  basis.     But  it  is  more 
than  possible,  that  these  errors  of  defect  or  exaggeration^ 
by  kindling  and  feeding  the  controversy,  may  have  con- 
duced, not  only  to  the  wider  propagation  of  the  accompa- 
nying truths,  but  that,  by   their  frequent   presentation  to 
the  mind  in  an  excited  state,  they  may  have  won  for  them 
^a  more  permanent  and  practical  result      A  man  will  bor- 
row a  part  from  his  opponent,  the  more  easily,  if  he  feels 
himself  justified  in  continuing   to   reject   a    part.     While 
there  remain  important  points,  in  which  he  can  still  feel 
himself  in  the  right,  in  which  he  still  finds  firm  footing  for 
continued  resistance,  he  will  gradually  adopt  those  opi- 
nions which  were  the  least  remote  from  his   own  convic- 
tions, as  not  less  congruous  with  his  own  theory  than  with 
that  which  he  reprobates.      In  like  manner,  with    a  kind 
ef  instinctive  prudence,  he  will  abandon  by  little  and  lit- 
tle his  weakest  posts,  till  at  length  he  seems  to  forget  that 
they  had  ever  belonged  to  him,  or  affects  to  consider  them 
at  most,  as  accidental  and   ''  petty  annexments,"  the  re- 
moval of  which  leaves  the  citadel  unhurt  and  unendau- 
gered. 

My  own  differences,  from  certain  supposed  parts  of  Mr. 
Wordsworth's  theory,  ground  themselves  on  the  assump- 
tion, that  his  words  had  been  rightly  interpreted,  as  pur- 
porting that  the  proper  diction  for  poetry  in  general  con- 
sists altogether  in  a  language  taken,  with  due  exceptions, 
from  the  mouths  of  men  in  real  life,  a  language  which 
actually  constitutes  the  natural  conversation  of  nitn  under 
the  influence  of  natural  feelings.  My  objection  is,  first, 
that  in  an?/  sense  this  rule  is  applicable  only  to  certain 
classes  of  poetry  ;  secondly,  that  even  to  these  classes  it 
is  not  applicable,  except  in  such  a  sense,  as  hath  never, 
by  any  one,  (as  far  as  \  know  or  have  read,)  been  denied 
or  doubted  ;  and,  lastly,  that  as  far  as,  and  in  that  degree 
in  which  it  \s  j^racficable ;  yet  asari//e  it  is  useless,  if  not 
injurious,  and  therefore,  either  need  not,  or  ought  not  to 
be  practised.  The  poet  informs  his  reader,  that  he  had 
generally  chosen  loii'  and  rustic  life  ;  but  not  as  low  and 
rustic^  or  in  order  to  repeat  that  pleasure  of  doubtful  mo* 


27 

ral  e^ect,  which  persons  of  elevated  rank,  anrl  of  supe? 
rior  refinement  oftentimes  derive  from  a  happy  imitation, 
oi  the  rude  unpolished  manners,  and  discourse  of  their 
inferiors.  For  the  pleasure  so  derived  may  be  traced  to 
three  exciting  causes.  The  first  is  the  naturalness,  in/act^ 
of  the  things  represented  The  second  is  the  apparent 
naturalness  of  the  representation,  as  raised  and  qualified 
by  an  imperceptible  infusion  of  the  author's  own  know* 
]ed<^e  and  talent,  which  infusion  does,  indeed,  constitute 
it  an  imitation  as  distinguished  from  a  mere  copy.  The 
third  cause  may  be  found  in  the  reader's  conscious  feel- 
ing of  his  superiority,  awakened  by  the  contrast  ,)resent- 
ed  to  him  ;  even  as,  for  the  same  purpose,  the  kings  and 
great  barons  of  yore  retained  sometimes  actual  clowna 
and  fools,  but  mere  frequently  shrewd  and  witty  fellows 
in  that  character.  These,  however,  were  not  Mr.  Woids- 
worth's  objects.  He  chose  low  and  rustic  life,  "  because 
in  that  condition,  the  essential  passions  of  the  heart  find 
a  better  soil,  in  which  they  caa  attain  their  maturity,  are 
less  under  restraint,  and  speak  a  plainer  and  more  em- 
phatic language  ;  because  in  that  condition  of  life,  our 
elementary  feelings  co-exist  in  a  state  of  greater  simpli- 
city, and,  consequently,  maybe  more  accurately  contem- 
plated, and  more  forcibly  communicated ;  because  the 
manners  of  rural  life  germinate  from  those  elementary 
feelings,  and,  from  the  necessary  character  of  rural  oc- 
cupations, are  more  easily  comprehended,  and  are  more 
durable  ;  and,  lastly,  because,  in  that  condition  the  pas- 
sions of  men  are  incorporated  with  the  beautiful  and 
permanent  forms  of  nature." 

Now  it  is  clear  to  me,  that  in  the  most  interesting  of 
the  poems,  in  which  the  author  is  more  or  less  dramatic, 
as  the  ''  Brothers,"  ''  Michael,"  *^  Ruth,"  the  '^  Mad 
Mother,"  &c.  the  persons  introduced  are  by  no  means 
taken /ro7/i  low  or  rustic  life  in  the  common  acceptation 
of  those  words  ;  and  it  is  not  less  clear,  that  the  senti- 
ments and  language,  as  far  as  they  can  be  conceived  to 
have  been  really  transferred  from  the  minds  and  conver- 
sation of  such  persons,  are  attributable  to  causes  and  cir^ 
cumstaHces  not  necessarily  connected  with  '*  their  occu- 
pations and  abode."  The  thoughts^  leelings,  language, 
and  manners  of  the  shepherd-farmers  in  the  vales  oi  Cum- 


•berlancl  and  Westmoreland,  as  far  as  they  are  actually 
adopted  in  those  poems,  may  be  accounted  for  from 
causes  which  will,  and  do  produce  the  same  results  in 
every  state  of  lifC;  whether  in  town  or  country.  As  the 
two  principal  1  rank  that  fndependfnce,  which  raises  a 
man  above  servitude,  or  daily  toil,  for  the  profit  of  others, 
yet  not  above  the  necessity  of  industry,  and  a  frugal  sim- 
plicity of  domestic  life  ;  and  fhe  accompanying  unam- 
bitious, but  solid  and  religious  education,  which  ha.^  ren- 
dered (ew  books  familiar  but  the  bible,  and  the  liturgy 
or  hymn  book.  To  this  latter  cause,  indeed,  which  is  s6 
far  accidental.,  that  it  is  the  blessing  of  particular  coun- 
tries, and  a  particular  age,  not  the  product  of  particular 
places  or  employments,  the  poet  owes  the  show  of  proba- 
bility, that  his  personages  might  really  feel,  think,  and 
talk,  with  any  tolerable  resemblance  to  his  representation. 
It  is  an  excellent  remark  of  Dr.  Henry  More's  (!  ntbu- 
siasmus  triumphatus,  sec  xxxv.)  that  ''  a  man  of  confined 
education,  but  of  good  parts,  by  constant  reading  of  the 
bible,  wiii  naturally  form  a  more  w^inning  and  command- 
ing rhetoric  than  those  that  are  learned;  the  intermixture 
of  tongues  and  of  artificial  phrases  debasing  their  style/' 
It  is,  moreover,  to  be  considered,  ibat  to  the  lormation 
of  healthy  feelings,  and  a  reflecting  mind,  negations  in- 
volve impediments,  not  less  fornjidable  than  sophistica- 
tion and  vicious  intermixture.  1  am  convinced,  that  for 
the  human  soul  to  prosper  in  rustic  life,  a  certain  van- 
tage-ground is-  pre-requisite.  It  is  not  every  man  that 
is  likely  to  be  improved  by  a  country  life,  or  by  country 
labours.  Education,  or  original  sensibility,  or  both,  must 
pre-exist,  if  the  ch.^nges,  forms,  and  incidents  of  nature 
are  to  prove  a  sufficient  stimulant.  And  where  these  are 
not  sufi&cient,  the  mind  contracts  and  hardens  by  want  of 
Stimulants  ;  and  the  man  becomes  selfish,  sensual,  gross, 
and  hard-hearted  Let  the  management  of  the  f'ooR 
Law^s  in  Liverpool,  Manchester,  or  Bristol,  be  compared 
with  the  ordinary  dispensation  of  the  poor  rates  in  agri- 
cultural villages,  where  the  farmers  are  the  overseers 
and  guardians  of  the  poor.  If  my  own  experience  have 
not  been  particularly  unfortunate,  as  well  as  that  of  the 
many  respectable  country  clergymen,  with  whom  I  have 
conversed  on  the  subject,  the  result  would  engender 
more  than  scepticism,  concerning  the  desirable  influen- 


29 

ces  of  low  and  rustic  life  in  and  for  itself.  WbateVev 
may  be  concluded  on  the  other  side,  from  the  stronger 
local  attachments  and  enterprizing  spirit  of  the  Swiss, 
and  other  mountaineers,  appHes  to  a  particular  mode  of 
pastoral  life,  under  forms  of  property,  that  permit  and 
beget  manners  truly  republican,  not  to  rustic  life  in  gene- 
ral, or  to  the  absence  of  artificial  cultivation.  On  the 
contrary,  the  mountaineers,  whose  manners  have  beei> 
so  often  eulogized,  are,  in  general,  better  educated,  and 
greater  readers  than  men  of  equal  rank  elsewhere.  But 
where  this  is  not  the  case,  as  among  the  peasantry  of 
North  Wales,  the  ancient  mountains,  with  all  their  ter- 
rors and  all  their  glories,  are  pictures  to  the  blind,  and 
music  to  the  djeaf. 

I  should  not  have  entered  so  much  into  detail  upon  thiis 
passage,  but,  here  seems  to  be  tbe  point  to  which  all  the 
lines  of  difference  converge  as  to  their  source  and  centre.  (I 
mean,  as  far  as,  and  in  whatever  respect,  my  poetic  creed 
does  differ  from  the  doctrines  promulged  in  this  preface.) 
1  adopt,  with  full  faith,  the  principle  of  Aristotle,  that 
poetry,  as  poetry,  is  essentially  ideal^^  that  it  avoids  and 
excludes  all  accident  j'   that  its  apparent  individualities  of 

*  Say  not  that  I  am  recommending  abstractions,  for  these  class-charac* 
teristicsx,  which  constitute  the  instructiveness  of  a  character,  are  so  mo- 
dified and  parti culariz«=^^d  in  each  person  of  the  Shaksperian  Drama,  that 
life  itself  does  not  excite  more  distmctly  that  sense  of  individuality  which 
beionacs  to  real  existence.  Paradoxical  as  it  may  somid,  one  of  the  es- 
sential properties  of  geonry^try  is  not  less  essential  to  dramatic  excellence  ; 
and  Aristotle  has,  according-ly,  required  of  the  poet  an  involution  of  the 
universal  in  the  individual.  Tlie  chief  differences  are,  that  in  geometrijr 
it  is  the  universal  truth  which  is  uppermost  in  the  consciousness  ;  in  po- 
etry the  individual  form,  in  which  the  truth  is  clothed.  With  the  an- 
cients, and  not  less  with  the  elder  drcim-atists  of  England  and  France, 
both  comedy  and  tragedy  were  considered  as  kinds  of  poetry.  They 
neither  sought,  in  comedy,  to  make  us  laugh  merrily;  much  less  to  make 
us  laugh  by  wry  faces,  accidents  of  jargon,  slang  phrases  for  the  day,  or 
the  clothing  of  common-place  morals  in  metaphors  drawn  from  the  shops^ 
or  mechanic  occupations  of  their  characters.  Nor  did  they  condescend, 
in  tragedy,  to  wheedle  away  the  applause  of  the  spectators,  by  represent- 
ing before  them  fac-similies  of  their  own  mean  selves  in  all  their  existing 
meanness,  or  to  work  on  their  sluggish  sympathies  by  a  pathos  not  a  whit 
more  respectable  than  the  maudlin  tears  of  drunkenness.  Their  tragic 
scenes  were  meant  to  dff^d  us  indeed  ;  but  yet  within  the  bounds  of" 
pleasure,  and  in  union  with  the  activity  both  of  our  understanding  and 
imagination.  They  wished  to  transport  the  mind  to  a  sense  of  its  possi- 
ble greatness,  and  to  implant  the  germs  of  that  greatness,  during  the 
tt^mporary  oblivion  of  the  worthless  "thing  we  are,"  and  of  the  peculiar 
state  in  which  each  man  happens  to  be,  suspending  our  individual  recollec-  , 
tiG»s,  and  luUinf  them  to  sleep  amid  the  music  of  nobler  thoughts. 

Friind,  Pages  251,2^% 

3* 


30 

rank,  character,  or  occupation,  must  be  representative  of 
a  class  ;  and  that  the  persons  of  poetry  must  be  clothed 
with  generic  attributes,  with  the  common  attributes  of  the 
class  ;  not  with  such  as  one  gifted  individual  might  pos' 
sibly  possess,  but  such  as  iro'u  his  situation,  it  is  most 
probable  before-hand,  that  he  would  possess.  l(  my 
premises  are  righ%  and  my  deductions  legitimate,  it  fol- 
lows that  there  can  be  no  poetic  medium  between  the 
swains  of  Theocritus  and  those  of  an  imaginary  golden 
age. 

The  characters  of  the  vicar  and  the  shepherd  mariner, 
in  the  poem  of  the  "  Brothers,"  those  of  the  shepherd 
of  Green  head  Gill  in  the  *'  Michael,"  have  all  the  veri- 
similitude and  representative  quality  that  the  purposes  of 
poetry  can  require.  They  are  persons  of  a  known  and 
abiding  class,  and  their  manners  and  sentiments  the  natu- 
ral product  of  circumstances  common  to  the  class.  Take 
**  Michael,"  for  instance  : 

An  old  man  stout  of  heart,  and  strong  of  limb  ; 

His  bodily  frome  had  been  from  youth  to  ag-e 

Of  an  unusual  strength  :  his  mind  was  keen, 

Intense  and  frugal,  apt  for  all  affairs, 

And  in  his  shepherd's  calling  he  was  prompt 

And  watchful  more  than  ordinary  men. 

Hence,  he  had  learnt  the  meaning  of  all  winds, 

Of  blasts  of  every  tone,  and  oftentimes 

When  others  heeded  not,  he  heard  the  south 

Make  subterraneous  music,  like  the  noise 

Of  bagpipers  on  distant  highland  hills. 

The  shepherd,  at  such  warning,  cf  his  flock 

Bethought  him,  and  he  to  himself  wou](]  say, 

The  winds  are  now  devising  work  for  me ! 

And  truly  at  all  times  the  storm,  that  drives 

The  traveller  to  a  shelter,  summoned  him 

Up  to  the  mountains.     He  had  been  alone 

Amid  the  heart  of  many  thousatid  mists. 

That  came  to  him  and  led  him  on  the  heights. 

So  liv'd  he,  till  his  eightieth  year  was  pa'^s'd. 

And  grossly  that  man  errs,  who  should  suppose 

That  the  green  valleys,  and  the  streams  and  rocks^ 

"Were  things  indifferent  to  the  sheplierds  thoughts. 

Fields,  where  with  cheerful  sj^irits  he  had  breath'd 

Tii2  common  air  ;  the  hills  which  he  so  oft 

Had  climb'd  with  vigorous  steps ;  which  had  impress'^ 

So  maoy  incidents  upon  his  mind 


31 

Of  hardship,  skill,  or  courage,  joy  or  fear: 

Which,  like  a  book,  preserved  tlie  memory 

Of  the  dumb  animals  wliom  he  had  sav'd. 

Had  fed,  or  shelter'd,  Jinking-  to  such  ads, 

So  grateful  in  themselves,  the  certainty 

Of  honourable  g-ains  ;   these  fields,  these  hills, 

Which  were  his  living  being",  even  more 

Than  his  own  blood'— what  coukl  they  less  ? — had  laid 

Strong-  hold  on  his  ain^ctions— were  to  him 

A  pleasurable  feelinc^  of  blind  love, 

The  pleasure  which  there  is  in  life  itself. 

On  the  other  hand,  in  the  poems  which  are  pitched  a 
a  lowernote  as  the  "  Harry  Gi-ll,"  '-  Idiot  Bov,"  &c., 
the  feelings  are  tfiose  of  human  nature  in  general,  though 
the  poet  has  judiciously  laid  the  scene  in  the  country,  in 
order  to  place  himself  \n  the  vicinity  of  interesting  ima- 
2;es,  without  the  necessity  of  ascribing  a  sentimental  per- 
ception of  their  beauty  to  the  persons  of  his  drama  In 
the  '*  Idiot  Boy,"  indeed,  the  mothers  character  is  not 
so  much  a  real  and  native  product  of  a  •'  situation  where 
the  essential  passions  of  the  heart  find  a  better  scdl,  in 
which  they  can  attain  their  maturity,  and  speak  a  plainer 
and  more  emphatic  language."  as  it  is  an  impersonation 
of  an  instinct  abandonment  by  judgment  Hence,  the 
two  following  charges  seem  to  me  not  wholly  groundless  ; 
at  least,  they  are  the  only  plausible  o])jections  which  I 
have  heard  to  that  fine  poem  The  one  is,  that  the  au- 
thor has  not,  in  the  poem  itself,  taken  sufficient  care  to 
preclude  from  the  reader's  fancy  the  disgusting  images  of 
crdlnary^  morbid  idiocy,  which  yet  it  was  by  no  means 
his  intention  to  represent.  He  has  even  by  the  ''  burr, 
burr,  burr,"  uncounteracted  by  any  preceding  descrip- 
tion of  the  boy's  beauty,  assisted  in  recalling  them.  The 
other  is,  that  the  idiocy  of  the  hoy  is  so  evenly  balanced 
by  the  folly  of  the  mother^  as  to  present  to  the  general 
reader  rather  a  laughable  burlesque  on  the  l)lindness  of 
anile  dotage,  than  an  analytic  display  of  maternal  afFec* 
tion  in  its  ordinary  workings. 

In  the  *'  Thorn,"  the  poet  himself  acknowledges,  in  a 
note,  the  necessity  of  an  introductory  poem,  in  which  he 
should  have  portrayed  the  character  of  the  person  from 
whom  the  words  of  the  poem  are  supposed  to  proceed  : 
a  superstitious  man;  moderately  imaginative^  of  slow  fa- 


32 

cultles,  and  deep  feelings  ;  ''  a  captain  of  a  sir.all  trading, 
vessel,  for  example,  who,  being  past  the  middle  age  of 
life,  had  retired  upon  an  annuity,  or  small  independent 
income,  to  some  village  or  country  town,  of  which  he 
was  not  a  native,  or  in  which  he  had  not  been  accustom- 
ed to  live.  Such  men,  havms;  nothing  to  do,  become  cre- 
dulous and  talkative  from  indolence."  Bui  in  a  poem, 
still  more  in  a  lyric  poem,  (and  the  nursk  in  Shakspeare's 
Ixomeo  and  Juliet  alone  prevents  me  from  extending  the 
remark  even  to  dramatic  jioc/r?/,  if  indeed  the  Nurse  it- 
self can  be  deemed  altogether  a  case  in  point,)  it  is  not 
possible  to  imitate  truly  a  dull  and  garrulous  cliscourser, 
without  repeating  the  effects  of  dullness  and  garrulity. 
However  this  may  be,  I  dare  assert,  that  the  parts,  (and 
these  form  the  far  larger  portion  of  the  whole,)  which  might 
as  well,  or  still  better,  have- proceeded  from  the  poet's 
own  imagination,  and  have  been  spoken  in  his  own  cha- 
racter, are  those  which  have  given,  and  which  will  con- 
tinue to  give,  universal  delight  ;  and  that  the  passages 
exclusively  appropriate  lo  the  supposed  narrator,  such  as 
the  last  couplet  of  the  third  stanza  ;*  the  seven  last  lines 
of  the  tenth  ;t  and   the    five  following  stanzas,  with  th« 

*  "  I've  measured  it  from  side  to  side  ; 
'Tis  three  feet  long-,  and  two  feet  wide.'* 

f  "  Nay,  rack  your  brain — 'tis  all  in  vain,  9 

I'll  tell  you  every  thing  1  know  ;  * 

But  to  the  Thorn,  and  to  the  Pond, 
Which  is  a  little  step  beyond, 
I  wish  that  you  would  go: 
Perhaps,  when  you  are  at  the  place^ 
You  something  of  her  tale  may  trace, 

V\\  give  you  the  best  help  lean  : 

Before  you  up  the  mountain  go, 

ITp  to  the  dreary  mountain-lop, 

ril  tell  you  all  I  know. 

^Tis  now  some  two-and-twenty  years 

Since  she,  (her  name  is  Martha  Ray,). 

Gave,  with  a  maiden's  true  good  will. 

Her  company  to  Stephen  Hill ; 

And  she  v/as  blithe  and  gay,  ''' 

And  she  was  happy,  happy  still, 

Wheae'er  she  thought  of  Stephen  HilE- 


33 

exception  of  (he  four  admirable  lines  at  the  commence- 
ment of  tlie  fourteenth,  are  felt  by  many  unprejudiced 
and  unsophisticated  hearts,  as  sudden  and  unpleasant 
sinkings  from  the  height  to  which  the  poet  had  previously 
lifted  them,  and  to  which  he  again  re-elevates  both  him- 
self and  his  reader. 

And  the}^  had  fix'd  the  wedding-day, 
7'ie  morning-  that  must  wed  them  both; 
But  Stephen  to  another  maid 
Had  gwora  another  oath  ; 
And  with  this  other  rriaid  to  church 
Unthinking  Stephen  went — 
Poor  Martha  !  on  that  woful  day 
A  pang  of  pitiless  dismay 
Into  her  soul  was  sent ; 
A  fire  was  kindled  in  her  breast, 
Which  might  not  burn  itself  to  rest. 

They  say,  full  six  months  after  this, 
"While  yet  the  summer  leaves  were  greens- 
She  to  the  mountain  top  would  go, 
And  there  was  often  seen. 
'Tis  said  a  child  was  in  her  womb, 
As  now  to  any  eye  was  plain; 
She  was  with  child,  and  she  was  mad  ; 
Yet  often  she  was  sober  sad 
From  her  exceeding  pain. 
Oh  me!  ten  thousand  rimes  I'd  rather 
That  he  had  died,  that  cruel  father! 

*:¥****:;^^ 

Last  Christmas,  when  we  talked  of  this. 
Old  fanner  Siirspson  did  maintain. 
That  in  tier  womh  the  infant  wrought 
About  its  mother's  lieart,  and  brought 
Her  senses  back  again  : 
And  when  at  last  her  time  drew  near, 
Her  looks  were  calm,  her  senses  clear* 

No  more  I  know,  1  wish  I  did,      s      ~ 

And  I  would  tell  it  all  to  you  ;  ' 

For  what  became  of  this  poor  child 

There's  none  that  ever  knew  : 


34 

If  then  I  am  compelled  to  doubt  the  theory  by  which    ,1 
the  choice  of  characters  was  to  be  directed    not   only  a 
ptnori,    from    grounds   of  reason,    but  both  from  the  few 
instances  in  which  the  poet  himself  need  be  supposed  to 
have  been  governed   by  it,  and  from  the  comparative  in- 
feriority of  those  instances  ;  still  more  must  I  hesitate  in 
my  assent    to    the   sentence   which    immediately  follows 
Ihe  former  citation  ;  and   which    i    can  neithc;r   admit  as 
particular  fact,  or  as  general  rule.     "  The  language,  too, 
of  these  men  is  adopted,  (purified,  indeed,  from  what  ap- 
pears to  be  its  real  defects    from  all  lasting  and   rational 
causes  of  dislike  or  disgust,)  because    such    men  hourly 
communicate  with  the  best  objects    from   which  the  best 
part   of  language   is    originally   derived  ;    and    because, 
from  their  rank    in   society,  and  the   sameness  and  nar- 
row circle  of  their  intercourse,  being  less  under  the  action 
of  social  vanity,  they  convey  their  feelings  and  notions  in 
simpleand  unelaboratedexpressions.    Tothisi  reply,  that 
a   rustic's   language,  purified  from   all    provincialism  and 
grossness,  and  so   far  re-constructed  as  to  be  made  con- 
sistent with  the  rules  of  grammar,  (which  are.  in  essence, 
no  other  than    he  laws  of  universal  logic  applied  to  Psy- 
chological   materials,)    will  not  differ  from  the  language 
of  any  other  man  of  common  sense,  however  learned  or 
refined   he    may   be,    except  as  far  as  the  notions  which 
the  rustic  has  to  convey  are  fewer   and  more  indiscrimi- 
nate.     This  will  become  still  clearer  if  we  add  the  con- 
sideration,   equally  important,  though  less  obvious,)  that 
the  rustic,  from   the    more  imperfect  development  of  his 
faculties,  and  from  the   lower  state    of  their  cultivation, 
aims  almost  solely  to  convey  insulated  facts  ^  either  those 
of  bis  scanty  experience  or  his  traditional  belief;   while 
the  educated  man   chiefly  seeks   to  discover  and  express 
those  connections  of  things,  or  those  relative  bearings  of 
fact  to  fact,  from  which  some  more  or  less  general   law 

And  if  a  child  was  born  or  no. 
There's  no  one  that  could  ever  tell; 
And  if  'twas  born  alive  or  dead. 
There's  no  one  knovvs,  as  I  have  said ; 
But  soiiie  remember  well, 
That  Martl-.a  Rav,  about  this  time 
Would  up  the  mountaia  often  clirnb.'' 


35 

is  (leducible.  For  facts  are  valuable  to  a  wise  maiii^ 
chiefly  as  they  lead  to  the  discovery  of  the  in-dvveliing 
law,  which  is  the  true  being  of  things,  the  sole  solution 
of  their  modes  of  existence,  and  in  the  knowledge  of 
which  consists  our  dignity  and  our  power. 

As  little  can  I  agree  with  the  assertion,  that  from  the 
objects  with  which  the  rustic  hourly  communicates,  the 
best  part  of  language  is  formed     Fox,  first,  if  to  couimu- 
nicate  willi  an  object  implies  such  an  acquaintance  with  it, 
as  renders  it  capable  of  being  discriminately  reflected  on  ; 
the  distinct    knowledge  of  an  uneducated   rustic    would 
furnish  a  very  scanty  vocabuiar}^      I'he  few  things,  and 
modes   of  action,  requisite   for  his  bodily  conveniences^ 
would  alone  be  individualized,   while  all  the  rest  of  na- 
ture would  be  expressed  by  a  small  number  of  confused, 
general  terms.   Secondly,  1  den}^  that  the  words,  and  com- 
binations of  words  derived  from  the  objects,  with  which 
the  rustic  is  fmnlinr,   whether  with  distinct  or  confused 
knowledge,  can   be  justly  said  to  form  the  best  part  of 
language.    It  is  more  than  probable,  that  man}^  classes  of 
the  brute  creation  possess  discriminating  sounds,  by  which 
they  can  convey   to  each  other  notices  of  such  objects  as 
concern  their  food,  shelter,  or  safety.     Yet  we  hesitate 
to  call  the  aggregate  of  such  sounds  a  language,  otherwise 
than  metaphorically.      The  best  part  of  liuman  language, 
properly  so  called,  is  derived  from  reflection  on  the  acts  of 
the  mind  itself  It  is  formed  by  a  voluntary  appropriation  of 
fixed  symbols  to  internal  acts,  to  processes  and  results  of 
imagination,  the  greater  part  of  which  have  no  place  in  the 
consciousness  of  uneducated  man  ;  though,  in  civilized  so- 
ciety, by  imitation  and  passive  remembrance  of  what  they 
hear  from  their  reli<4ious  instructors  and  other  superiors^ 
the  most  uneducated  share  in  the  harvest,  v/hich  they  nei- 
ther sowed  or  reaped.  If  the  history  of  the  phrases  in  hour- 
ly currency  among  our  peasants  were  traced,  a  person  not 
previously  aware  of  the  fact  would  be  surprized  at  find- 
ing so  large  a  number,  w^hich,  three  or  four  centuries  ago, 
were  the  exclusive  property  of  the  universities  and  the 
schools  ;  and,  at  the  commencement  of  the  Reformation, 
had  been  transferred  from  the  school  to  the  pulpit,    and 
thus  gradually  passed  into  common  life.     The  extreme 
difficulty,  and  often  the  impossibility,  of  finding  words  for 
the  simplest  moral  and  intellectual  processes  in  the  la»- 


36 

guas;Gs  of  uncivilized  tribes  has  proved,  perhaps,  the 
weightiest  obstacle  to  the  progress  of  our  most  zealous 
and  adroit  missionaries.  Yet  these  tribes  are  surrounded 
hy  the  same  nature,  as  our  peasants  are  ;  but  in  still 
more  impressive  forms  ;  and  they  are,  moreover,  oblig- 
ed to  particularize  many  more  of  them.  When,  there- 
fore, Mr.  Wordsworth  adds,  "  accordingly,  such  a  lan- 
guage," (meaning,  as  before,  the  language  of  rustic  liife, 
purified  from  provincialism,)  "  arising  out  of  repeated 
experience  and  regular  feelings,  is  a  more  permanent, 
and  a  far  more  piiilosophical  language,  than  that  Avhich 
is  frequently  substituted  for  it  by  poets,  who  think  thej 
are  conferring  honour  upon  themselves  and  their  art,  in 
proportion  as  they  indiilge  in  .arbitrary  and  capricious 
habits  of  expression  ;"  it  ma}'-  be  answered,  that  the  lan- 
guage which  he  has  in  view  can  be  attributed  to  rustics 
with  no  greater  right  than  the  style  of  Hooker  or  Bacon 
to  Tom  Brown  or  Sir  Roger  L'Estrange.  Doubtless, 
if  what  is  pecuHar  to  each  were  omitted  in  each,  the  re- 
sult must  needs  be  the  same.  Further,  that  the  poet, 
who  uses  an  illogical  diction,  or  a  style  fitted  to  excite 
only  the  low  and  changeable  plea-ure  of  wonder,  by 
means  of  groundless  noveltjs  substitutes  a  language  of  fol- 
ly and  vanity,  not  for  that  of  the  rustic,  but  for  that  of 
good  sense  and  natural  feeling. 

Here  let  be  permitted  to  remind  the  reader,  that  the 
positions,  which  I  controvert,  are  contained  in  the  senten- 
ces— ''  a  selection  of  the  real  language  of  men ;" — ''  the  lan- 
guage of  these  men,  (i.  e.  men  in  low  and  rustic  life,)  1  pro- 
pose to  mysef  to  imitate,  and,  as  far  as  possible,  to  adopt  the 
very  language  of  men ^"^  ^'  Between  the  language  of  prose 
and  thai  f  metrical  composition,  there  neither  is,  nor  can  be, 
any  essential  di^erence.'''  It  is  against  these  exclusively, 
that  my  opposition  is  directed. 

I  object,  in  the  very  first  instance,  to  an  equivocation  iti 
the  use  of  the  word  "  real."  Every  man's  langua:;e  va- 
ries according  to  the  extent  of  his  knowledge,  the  activity 
of  his  faculties,  and  the  depth  or  quickness  of  his  feelings. 
Every  man's  language  has,  first,  its  individiwlities ;  se- 
condly, the  common  properties  of  the  class  to  which  he 
belongs  ;  atid  thirdly,  word?  and  phrases  of  umver3ct(  use. 
The  languM^e  of  Hooker,  Bacon,  Bishop  Taylor,  and 
Burke,  differ  from  the  common  language  of  the  learned 


37 

tl(\S3  only  by  the  superior  luiinber  and  novelty  of  the 
thoughts  and  relations  which  they  had  to  convey.  The 
language  of  Algernon  Sidney  differs  not  at  all  from  that 
v/hich  every  well  educated  gentleman  would  wish  to  write,  . 
and  (with  due  allowances  for  the  undeliberateness*,  and 
less  connected  train,  of  thinking  natural  and  proper  to 
conversation,)  such  he  would  wish  to  talk.  Neither  one 
or  the  other  differ  half  as  much  from  the  general  lan- 
guage of  cultivated  society,  as  the  language  of  Mr.  Words- 
worth's homliest  composition  differs  from  that  of  a  com- 
mon peasant.  For  **  real,"  therefore,  we  must  substi^ 
tute  ordinary  or  lingua  communis.  And  this,  we  have 
proved,  is  no  more  to  be  found  in  the  phraseology  of 
low  and  rustic  life,  than  in  that  of  any  other  class.  Omit 
the  peculiarities  of  each,  and  the  result,  of  course,  must  be 
common  to  all.  And,  assuredly,  the  omissions  and  chan- 
ges to  be  made  in  the  language  of  rustics,  before  it  could 
be  transferred  to  any  species  of  poem,  except  the  drama 
or  other  professed  imitation,  are  at  least  as  numerous  and 
weighty  as  would  be  required  in  adapting  to  the  same 
purpose  the  ordinary  language  of  tradesmen  and  manu- 
facturers. Not  to  mention,  that  the  language  so  highly 
extolled  by  Mr.  Wordsworth  varies  in  every  county, 
nay,  in  every  village,  according  to  the  accidental  charac- 
ter of  the  clergyman  ;  the  existence  or  non-existence  of 
schools  ;  or  even,  perhaps,  as  the  exciseman,  publican, 
or  barber  happen  to  be,  or  not  to  be,  zealous  politicians, 
and  readers  of  the  v/eekly  newspaper  pro  bono  publico. 
Anterior  to  cultivation  the  lingua  communis  of  every 
country,  as  Dante  has  well  observed,  exists  every  where 
in  parts,  and  no  where  as  a  whole. 

Neither  is  the  case  rendered  at  all  more  tenable  by  the 
addition  of  the  words,  '*  in  a  state  of  exciteraent.^'^  For 
the  nature  of  a  man's  words,  when  he  is  strongly  affected 
by  joy,  grief,  or  anger,  must  necessarily  depend  on  the 
number  and  quality  of  the  general  truths,  conceptions, 
and  images,  and  of  the  words  expressing  them,  with 
which  his  mind  has  been  previously  stored.  For  the 
property  of  passion  is  not  to  create  ;  but  to  set  in  in- 
creased activity.  At  least,  whatever  new  connections  of 
thoughts  or  images,  or  (which  is  equally,  if  not  more 
than  equally,  the  appropriate  effect  of  strong  excitement) 
Vol;  U.  4 


38 

whatever  generalizations  of  truth  or  experience  the  heat 
of  passion  may  produce,  yet,  the  terms  of  their  con- 
veyance must  have  pre-existed  in  his  former  conversa- 
tions, and  are  only  collected  and  crowded  together  by 
the  unusual  stimulation.  It  is,  indeed,  very  possible  to 
adopt  in  a  poem  the  unmeaning  repetitions,  habitual 
phrases,  and  other  blank  counters,  which  an  unfurnished 
or  confused  understanding  interposes  at  short  intervals, 
in  order  to  keep  hold  of  his  subject,  which  is  still  slipping 
from  him,  and  to  give  him  time  for  recollection  ;  or,  in 
mere  aid  of  vacancy,  as  in  the  scanty  companies  of  a 
country  stage,  the  same  player  pops  backwards  and  for- 
wards, in  order  to  prevent  the  appearance  of  empty 
spaces  in  the  procession  of  Macbeth,  or  Henry  Vlllth. 
But  what  assistance  to  the  poet,  or  ornament  to  the  poem, 
these  can  supply,  I  am  at  a  loss  to  conjecture.  Nothing, 
assuredly,  can  differ  either  in  origin  or  in  mode  more 
widely  from  the  apparent  tautologies  of  intense  and  tur- 
bulent feeling,  in  which  the  passion  is  greater,  and  of 
longer  endurance,  than  to  be  exhausted  or  satisfied  by  a 
single  representation  of  the  image  or  incident  exciting  it. 
Such  repetitions  I  admit  to  be  a  beauty  of  the  highest 
kind,  as  illustrated  by  Mr.  Wordsworth  himself  from 
the  song  of  Deborah.  *'  At  her  feet  he  bowed,  he  fell,  he 
lay  down;  at  her  feet  he  bowed,  he  fell;  where  he  bozved, 
there  he  fell  down  dead  J  "^ 


39 


CHAPTER  XVIIL 

Language   of  metrical  composition,  why  and  wherein  es- 
-     sentially  dif event  from  that  of  prose — Origin  and   ele- 
ments of  metre — Its  necessary  consequences,  and  the  con- 
ditions  thereby  imposed  an   the  metrical  writer  in  the 
choice  of  his  diction, 

T  conclude,  therefore,  that  the  attempt  is  impractica- 
ble ;  and  that,  were  it  not  impracticable,  it  would  still 
be  iiseless.  For  the  very  power  of  making  the  selection 
implies  the  previous  possession  of  the  language  selected. 
Or  where  can  the  poet  have  lived  ?  And  by  what  rules 
could  he  direcHlis  chaice,  which  would  not  have  ena- 
bled him  to  select  and  arrange  his  words  by  the  light  of 
his  own  judgment  ?  We  do  not  adopt  the  language  of 
a  class  by  the  mere  adoption  of  such  words  exclusively, 
as  that  class  would  use,  or  at  least  understand  ;  bat, 
likewise,  by  following  the  order  in  which  the  words  of 
such  men  are  wont  to  succeed  each  other.  Now.  this 
order,  ia  the  intercourse  of  uneducated  men.  is  distin- 
guished from  the  diction  of  their  superiors  in  knowledge 
and  power,  by  the  greater  disjunction  and  separation  in 
the  component  parts  of  that,  whatever  it  be,  which  they 
wish  to  communicate.  There  is  a  want  of  that  prospec- 
tiveness  of  mind,  that  surview\  which  enables  a  man  to 
foresee  the  whole  of  what  he  is  to  convey,  appertaining 
to  any  one  point ;  and,  by  this  means,  so  to  subordinate 
and  arrange  the  different  parts  according  to  their  rela- 
tive importance,  as  to  convey  it  at  once,  and  as  an  organ- 
ized whole. 

Now  i  will  take  the  first  stanza,  on  which  I  have 
chanced  to  open,  in  the  Lyrical  Ballads.  It  is  one  of  the 
most  simple  and  the  least  peculiar  in  its  language^ 

**  In  distant  countries  I  have  been. 
And  yet  I  have  not  often  seen 
A  healthy  man,  a  man  full  grown, 
Weep  in  the  public  road  alone. 


40 

Cut  sucl)  a  one,  on  Eng-lisb  ground, 
And  in  the  broad  highway  1  met ; 
Along  the  broad  highway  he  came, 
His  cheeks  with  tear?  were  wet. 
Sturdy  he  seein'd,  though  he  ^v'as  sad, 
And  in  his  arms  a  lamb  he  had." 

The  words  here  are  doubtless  such  as  are  current  in 
all  ranks  of  life  ;  and,  of  course,  not  less  so,  in  the  ham- 
let and  cottage,  than  in  the  shop,  manufactory,  college, 
or  palace.  But  is  this  the  order  in  which  the  rustic 
would  have  placed  the  words  ?  1  am  grievously  deceiv- 
ed, if  the  following  less  compact  mode  of  commencing  the 
;game  tale  be  not  a  flir  more  faithful  copy.  "  1  have  been 
in  a  many  parts  far  and  near,  and  1  don't  know  thati 
ever  saw  before  a  man  crying  by  himself  in  the  |>ublic 
road  ;  a  grown  man  I  mean,  that  was  neither  sick  nor- 
hurt,"  ^c.  &:c.  But  when  I  turn  to  the  following  stanza 
la  **The  Thorn-.'' 

*'  At  all  times  of  the  day  and  night 
This  wretched  womian  thither  goes, 
And  she  is  known  to  every  star 
And  every  wind  that  blows  : 
And  there  beside  the  thorn  she  sits. 
When  the  blue  day-light's  in  the  skies;' 
And  when  the  whirlwind's  on  the  hiH, 
Or  frosty  air  is  keen  and  still ; 
And  to  herself  she  cries. 
Oh  nTiisery  !  Oh  misery  ! 
Oh  wo  is  me  J  Oh  misery  !*' 

And  compare  this  with  the  language  of  ordinary  men  ; 
or  with  that  which  I  can  conceive  at  all  likely  to  pro- 
ceed, in  real  life,  from  such  a  narrator,  as  is  supposed  in 
the  note  to  the  poem  ;  compare  it  either  in  the  succes- 
sion of  the  images  or  of  the  sentences,  I  am  reminded  of 
the  sublime  prayer  and  hymn  of  praise,  which  Milton, 
in  opposition  to  an  estabhshed  liturgy,  presents  as  a  fair 
"specimen  of  common  extemy)orary  devotion,  and  such  as 
we  might  expect  to  hear  from  every  self-inspired  minis- 
ter of  a  conventicle  !  And  I  reflect  with  delight,  how 
little  a  mere  theory,  though  of  his  own  workmanship, 
interferes  with  the  processes  of  genuine  imagination  in  a 


41 

man  of  true  poetic  genius,  who  possesses,  as  Mr.  Words- 
worth, if  ever  man  did,  most  assuredly  does  possess, 

**The  Vision  and  the  Faculty  divine." 

One  point,  then,  alone  remains,  but  that  the  most  im- 
portant ;  its  examination  having  been,  Indeed,  my  chief 
inducement  for  the  preceding  inquisition*  "  There  nei- 
ther is  or  can  he  any  essential  dijfererice  between  the  Ian* 
guage  of  prose  arid  metrical  composition,''^  Such  is  Mr. 
Wordsworth's  assertion.  Now,  prose  itself,  at  least,  in 
all  argumentative  and  consecutive  works,  differs,  and 
ought  to  differ,  from  the  language  of  conversation  ;  even 
as  reading  ought  to  differ  from  talking.*  Unless,  there- 
fore, the  difference  denied  be  that  of  the  mere  words^- 
as  materials  common  to  all  styles  of  writing,  and  not  of 
the  style  itself  in  the  universally  admitted  sense  of  the 
term,  it  might  be  naturally  presumed  that  there  must 
exist  a  still  greater  between  the  ordonnance  of  poetic 
composition  and  that  of  prose,  than  is  expected  to  dis- 
tinguish prose  from  ordinary  conversation.- 

There  are  not,  indeed,  examples  wanting  in  the  histo- 
ry of  literature,  of  apparent  paradoxes  that  have  sum- 
moned the  public  wonder,  as  new  and  startling  truths, 

*It  is  no  less  an  error  in  teachers,  than  a  torment  to  the  poor  children, 
to  inforce  the  necessity  of  reading-  as  they  would  talk.  In  order  to  cure 
them  of  singings  as  it  is  called  ;  that  is,  of  too  great  a  difference.  The 
child  is  made  to  repeat  the  words  with  his  eyesfrom  ofl'  the  book  ;  and, 
then  indeed,  liis  tones  resemble  talking,  as  far  as  his  fears,  tears,  and  trem- 
bling* will  permit.  But,  as  soon  as  the  eye  is  again  directed  to  the  printed 
page,  ibo  spelh  begins  anew  ;  for  an  instinctive  sense  tells  the  child's  feel- 
ings, that  to  utter  its  own  momentary  tiioughts,  and  to  recite  the  written 
thoughts  of  another,  as  of  another,  and  a  far  wiser  than  himself,  are  twa 
widely  different  things  ;  and,  as  the  two  acts  are  accompanied  with  wide-* 
iv  different  feelings,  so  must  they  justify  different  modes  of  enunciation. 
Joseph  Lancaster,  among  his  other  sophistications  of  the  excellent  Dr. 
i^elPs  invaluable  system,  cures  this  fault  of  5ir^o^r7g,  by  hanging  fetters 
and  cha  ns  on  the  c.bild,  to  the  music  of  which  one  of  his  school  fellow-? 
who  walks  before,  dolefully  chaunts  out  the  child's  last  speech  and  con- 
fes!!^ion,  birth,  parentage,  and  education.  And  this  soul-benumbing  igno-i 
miny,  this  unholy  and  heart-hardening  burlesque  on  the  last  fearful  in- 
fliction of  outraged  law,  in  pronouncing  the  sentence,  to  which  the  stern 
^nd  iarniliari^ed  judge  not  seldom  bursts  into  tears,  has  been  extolled  as 
a  happy  and  ingenious  method  of  remedying — what.''  and  how? — why 
one  extreme  in  order  to  introduce  another,  scarce  less  distant  from  good 
sense,  and  certainly  likely  to  have  worse  moral  effects,  by  enforciiig  a 
semblance  of  petulant  ease  and  self-sufficiency,  in  repression,  and  possi- 
ble after-per /ersion  of  the  natural  feelings,  fhave  to  beg  Dr  Bell's  par- 
don for  this  connexion  of  the  two  names,  but  he  knows  that  contrast  is  no 
>esr  powerful  a  cause  of  association  than  likeness. 
4^ 


42 

but  which,  on  examination,  have  shrunk  nito  tame  and 
harmless  truisms ;  as  the  eyes  of  a  cat,  seen  in  the  dark, 
have  been  mistaken  for  flames  of  fire.  But  Mr.  Words- 
worth is  among  the  last  men,  to  whom  a  delusion  of  this 
kind  would  be  attributed  by  any  one  who  had  enjoyed 
the  slightest  opportunity  of  understanding  his  mind  and 
character.  Whjere  an  objection  has  been  anticipated  by- 
such  an  author  as  natural,  his  answer  to  it  must  needs 
be  interpreted  in  some  sense,  which  either  is,  or  has  been, 
or  is  capable  of  being,  controverted.  My  object  iheix 
must  be  to  discover  some  other  meaning  for  the  term 
*'  essential  difference^''  in  this  place,  exclusive  of  the  in- 
distinction  and  community  of  the  words  themselves.  For 
whether  there  ought  to  exist  a  class  of  words  in  the 
English,  in  any  degree  resembling  the  poetic  dialect  of 
the  Greek  and  Italian,  is  a  question  of  very  subordinate 
importance.  The  number  of  such  words  would  be  small 
indeed,  in  our  language,  and  even  in  the  Italian  and 
Greek  ;  they  consist  not  so  much  of  different  words,  as 
of  slight  differences  in  the /orms  of  declining  and  conju- 
gating the  same  words  ;  forms,  doubtless,  which  having 
been,  at  some  period  more  or  less  remote,  the  common 
grammatic  flexions  of  some  tribe  or  province,  had  been 
accidentally  appropriated  to  poetry  by  the  general  ad- 
miration of  certain  master  intellects,  the  first  established 
lights  of  inspiration,  to  whom  that  dialect  happened  to 
be  native. 

Essence,  in  its  primary  signification,  means  the  prin- 
ciple of  individuation^  the  inmost  principle  of  the  possi- 
bility of  any  thing,  as  that  particular  thing.  It  is  equi- 
volant  to  the  idea  of  a  thing,  whenever  we  use  the  word 
idea  with  philosophic  precision.  Existence,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  distinguished  from  essence,  by  the  super- 
induction  oi  reality.  Thus  we  speak  of  the  essence,  and 
essential  properties  of  a  circle  ;  but  we  do  not  there*- 
fore  assert,  that  any  thing  which  really  exists,  is  mathe- 
matically circular.  Thus,  too,  without  any  tautology,  we 
contend  for  the  existence  of  the  Supreme  Being  ;  that  is, 
for  a  reality  correspondent  to  the  idea.  There  is,  next, 
a  secondary  use  of  the  word  essence,  in  which  it  signifies 
the  point  or  ground  of  contra-distinction  between  two 
modifications  of  the  same  substance  or  subject.  Thus 
we  should  be  allowed  to  say,  that  the  stjle  of  architect- 


43 

ure  of  Westminister  Abbey  is  essentially  difterent  from 
that  of  Saint  Paul,  even  though  both  had  been  built  with 
blocks  cut  into  the  same  form,  and  from  the  same  quar- 
ry. Only  in  this  latter  sense  of  the  term  must  it  have 
been  denied  by  Mr.  Wordsworth  (for  in  this  sense  alone 
is  it  affirmed  by  the  general  opinion)  that  the  language 
of  poetry  (i.  e.  the  formal  construction,  or  architecture 
of  the  words  and  phrases)  is  essentially  different  from  that 
of  prose.  Now  the  burthen  of  the  proof  lies  with  the 
oppugner,  not  with  the  supporters  of  the  common  belief. 
Mr.  Wordsworth,  in  consequence,  assigns,  as  the  proof 
of  his  position,  "•'  that  not  only  the  language  of  a  large 
portion  of  every  good  poem,  even  of  the  most  elevated 
character,  must  necessarily,  except  with  reference  to 
the  metre,*in  no  respect  differ  from  that  of  good  prose  ; 
but,  likewise,  that  some  of  the  most  interesting  parts  of 
the  best  poems  will  be  found  to  he  strictly  the  language 
of  prose,  wh.en  prose  is  well  written.  The  truth  of  this 
assertion  might  be  demonstrated  by  innumerable  passa- 
ges from  almost  all  the  poetical  writings  even  of  Miltoa 
himself."     He  then  quotes  Gray's  sonnet — 

*'  In  vain  to  me  the  smihog"  morninf^s  shine. 
And  reddening  Phoebus  bfts  his  golden  fire ; 
The  birds  in  vain  their  amorous  descant  joins 
Or  cheerful  fields  resume  their  gi  cen  attire  ; 
These  ears,  alas  !  for  other  notes  repine  ; 
A  different  object  do  these  eyes  require ; 
My  lonely  anguish  melts  no  heart  but  mine^ 
And  in  my  breast  the  imperfect  joys  expire  ! 
Yet  morning  smiles,  the  bu$y  race  to  cheer, 
And  new-born  pleasure  brings  to  happier  men  : 
The  fields  to  all  their  wonted  tributes  bear. 
To  warm  their  little  loves  the  birds  complain. 
1  fruitless  mourn  to  him  that  cannot  hear. 
And  loeep  the  more,  because  I  v:eep  in  vain  ;" 

and  adds  the  following  remark  ^ — ''  It  will  easily  be  per- 
ceived, that  the  only  part  of  this  Sonnet  which  is  of  any 
vakie,  is  the  lines  printed  in  italics.  It  is  equally  obvi- 
ous, that  except  in  the  rhyme,  and  in  the  use  of  the 
single  word  ''fruitless"  for  fruitlessly,  which  is  so  far 
a  defect,  the  language  of  these  lines  does  in  no  respeqt 
differ  from  that  of  prose." 


41 

An  idealist  defending  his  system  by  the  fact,  that  wheu 
asleep  we  often  beheve  ourselves  awake,  was  well  an- 
swered by  his  plain  neighbour,  "  Ah,  but  when  awake 
do  we  ever  believe  ourselves  asleep  ?" — Things  identi- 
cal must  be  convertible.  The  preceding  passage  seems 
to  rest  on  a  similar  sophism.  For  the  question  is  not, 
whether  there  may  not  occur  in  prose  an  order  of  words, 
which  would  be  equally  proper  in  a  poem  ;  nor  whether 
there  are  not  beautiful  lines  and  sentences  of  frequent 
occurrence  in  gv3od  poems,  which  would  be  equally  be- 
coming, as  well  as  beautiful,  in  good  prose  ;  for  neither 
the  one  or  the  other  has  ever  been  either  denied  ^ 
doubted  by  any  one.  The  true  question  must  be,  whether 
there  are  not  modes  of  expression,  a  constrnctiGn,  diDd  iin 
order  of  sentences,  which  are  in  their  fit  and  natural 
place  in  a  serious  prose  composition,  but  would  be  dis- 
proportionate and  heterogeneous  in  metrical  poetry  ; 
and,  vice  versa,  whether  in  the  language  of  a  serious 
poem  there  may  not  be  an  arrangement  both  of  wordi^ 
and  sentences,  and  a  use  and  selection  of  (what  are  call- 
ed)  figures  of  speech,  both  as  to  their  kind,  their  frequen- 
cy, and  their  occasions,  which,  on  a  subject  of  equal 
weight,  would  be  vicious  and  alien  in  correct  and  manly 
prose.  I  contend,  that  in  both  cases,  this  unfitness  of 
each  for  the  place  of  the  other  frequently  will  and  ought 
to  exist. 

"And,  first,  from  the  origin  of  metre.  This  I  would 
trace  to  the  balance  in  the  mind  efl'ected  by  that  sponta- 
neous effort  which  strives  to  hold  in  check  the  working* 
of  passion.  It  might  be  easily  explained,  likewise,  in 
what  manner  this  salutary  antagonism  is  assisted  by  the 
very  state  which  it  counteracts,  and  how  this  balance  of 
antagonists  became  organized  into  metre ^  (in  the  usual  ac- 
ceptation of  that  term,)  by  a  supervening  act  of  the  will 
and  judgment,  consciously,  and  for  the  foreseen  purpose 
of  pleasure.  Assuming  these  principles,  as  the  data  of 
our  argument,  we  deduce  from  them  two  legitimate  con- 
ditions, which  the  critic  is  entitled  to  expect  in  every 
metrical  work.  First ;  that  as  the  chmcuis  of  metre  owe 
their  existence  to  a  state  of  increased  excitement,  so  the 
metre  itself  should  be  accompanied  by  the  natural  lan- 
guage of  excitement.  Secondly  ;  that  as  these  elements 
are  formed  into  metre  artif  daily,  by  a  voluntary  act,  with 
the  design,  and  for  the  purpose  of  blending  delight  Tvith 


45 

emotion,  so  the  traces  of  present  ro^?7ion  should,  throiigli- 
out  the  metrical  langua^^e,  be  proportionally  discernible. 
Now,  these  two  conditions  must  be  reconciled  and  co- 
present.  There  must  be,  not  only  a  partnership,  but  a 
union  ;  an  interpenetration  of  passion  and  will,  of  5/3o;ito- 
neous  impulse  and  of  voluntary  purpose.  Again  ;  this 
union  can  be  manifested  only  in  a  frequency  of  forms 
and  figures  of  speech,  (ori«;inal!y  the  oiTspring  of  passion, 
but  now  the  adopted  children  of  power,)  greater  than 
would  be  desired  or  endured  where  the  emotion  is  not 
voluntarily  encouraged,  and  kept  up  for  the  sake  of  that 
pleasure  which  such  emotion,  so  tempered  and  master- 
ed by  the  will,  is  found  capable  of  communicating.  It  not 
only  dictates,  but  of  itself  tends  to  produce  a  more  fre- 
quent employment  of  picturesque  and  vivifying  language, 
than  would  be  natural  in  any  other  casein  which  there 
did  not  exist,  as  there"  does  in  the  present,  a  previous 
and  well  understood,  though  tacit,  compact  between  the 
poet  and  his  reader,  that  the  latter  is  entitled  to  expect, 
and  the  former  bound  to  supply  this  species  and  degree 
of  pleasurable  excitement.  We  may,  m  some  measure, 
apply  to  this  union,  the  answ^er  of  Polixenes,  in  the 
Winter's  Tale,  to  Perdita's  neglect  of  the  streaked 
gilly-flowers,  because  she  had  heard  it  said, 

**  There  is  an  art  which  in  their  piedness  shares. 
*'  With  great  creating  nature. 

Pol :  Say  there  be  : 
**  Yet  nature  is  made  better  by  no  mean, 
**  But  nature  makes  that  mean.     So  cv'n  that  art, 
*'  Which  you  say  adds  to  nature,  is  an  art 
"  That  nature  makes  !  You  see,  sweet  maid,  we  marry 
"  A  gentler  scyon  to  the  wildest  stock  : 
*'  And  make  conceive  a  bark  of  ruder  kind 
**  By  bud  of  nobler  race.      This  is  an  art, 
*'  Which  does  mend  nature — change  it  rather;  but 
*'  The  art  itself  is  nature.'' 

Secondly,  I  argue  from  the  effects  of  metre.  As  far* 
as  metre  acts  in  and  for  itself,  it  tends  to  increase  the  vi- 
vacity 3nd  susceptibility  both  of  the  general  feelings  and 
of  the  attention.  This  effect  it  produces  by  the  continued 
excitement  of  surprise,  and  by   the  quick  re.ciprocations 


46 

erf  curiosity,  still  gratified  and  sail  re-excited,  which  are' 
loo  slight,  indeed,  to  be  at  any  one  moment  objects  of  dis 
iinct  consciousness,  yet  become  considerable  in  their  ag^ 
grcgatc  inliuence.  As  a  medicated  atmosphere,  or  ai 
wine,  during  animated  conversation,  they  act  powerfully 
though  themselves  unnoticed.  Where,  therefore,  cor- 
respondent food  and  appropriate  matter  are  not  provided 
for  the  attention  and  feelings,  thus  roused,  there  must 
needs  be  a  disappointment  felt;  like  that  of  leaping  ir 
the  dark  from  the  last  step  of  a  stair-case,  when  we  had 
prepared  our  muscles  for  a  leap  of  three  or  four. 

The  discussion  on  the  powers  of  metre  in  the  preface 
is  hio'hly  ingenious,  and  touches  at  all  points  on  truth. 
But  I  cannot  find  any  statement  of  its  powers  considered 
abstractly  and  separately.  On  the  contrary,  Mr.  Words- 
worth seems  always  to  estimate  metre  by  the  powers 
which  it  exerts  during  (and,  as  I  think,  in  consequence  of ) 
its  combination  with  other  elements  of  poetry.  Thus,  the 
previous  difficulty  is  left  unanswered,  zi^hat  the  elements 
are  with  which  it  must  be  combined,  in  order  to  produce 
its  own  effects  to  any  pleasurable  purpose.  Double  and 
trisyllable  rhymes,  indeed,  form  a  lower  species  of  wit, 
and  attended  to,  exclusively  for  their  own  sake,  may  be- 
come a  source  of  momentary  amusement  ;  as  in  poor 
Smart's  distich  to  the  Welch  'Squire,  who  had  promised 
him  a  hare  : 

*'  Tell  me,  thou  son  of  great  Cadwallader  ! 
Hast  sent  the  hare  ?  or  bast  thou  swallov»''d  her  ? 

But,  for  nny  poetic  purposes,  metre  resembles  (if  the 
aptness  of  the  simile  may  excuse  its  meanness)  yest, 
worthless  or  disagreeable  by  itself,  but  giving  vivacity 
and  spirit  to  the  liquor  with  which  it  is  proportionally 
combined. 

The  referrence  to  the  *'  Children  of  the  Wood,"  by 
no  means  satisfies  my  judgment.  We  all  willingly  throw 
ourselves  back  for  a  while  into  the  feelings  of  our  child- 
hood. This  ballad,  therefore,  we  read  under  such 
recollections  of  our  own  childish  feelings,  as  would  equal- 
ly jendear  to  us  poems  which  Mr.  Wordsworth  himself 
.n^ould  regard  as  faulty  in  the  opposite  ej|reme  of  gaudT 


iiid  technical  oniaiiient,  Before  the  invention  of  print- 
er, and  in  a  still  greater  clegree,  before  the  introduc- 
ion  of  writing,  metre,  especially  alliterative  metre, 
'whether  nlliterative  at  the  beginning  of  the  words,  as  in 
■*  Pierce  Plouman,"  or  at  the  end,  as  in  rhymes,)  possess- 
ed an  independent  value,  as  assisting  the  recollection, 
ind,  consequently,  the  preservation  of  (vn?/ series  of  truths 
or  incidents.  But  1  am  not  convinced  by  the  collation  of 
^acts,  that  the  "  Children  in  the  WoocV  owes  either  its 
^reservation  or  its  popularity  to  its  metrical  form.  Mr. 
iVIarshai's  repository  affords  a  number  of  tales  in  prose 
nferior  to  pathos  and  general  merit,  some  of  as  old  a 
late,  and  many  as  widely  popular.  Tom  Hickathrift, 
L\CK  THE  Giant-killer,  Goody  Two-shoes,  and  Little 
itED  RiDiXG-HOOD,  are  formidable  rivals.  And  that  they 
lave  continued  in  prose,  cannot  be  fairly  explained  by 
he  assumption,  that  the  comparative  meanness  of  their 
houghts  and  images  precluded  even  the  humblest  forms 
A  metre.  The  scene  of  Goody  Tw^o-shoes  in  the 
:hurdi  is  perfectly  susceptible  of  metrical  narration  ; 
ind  among  the  (daoixaya  B-avAasorara,  even  of  the  present  age, 
do  not  recollect  a  more  astonishing  image  than  that  of 
he  "  ii'holc  rookery,  that  fiew  out  of  the  gianVs  beard,''' 
icared  by  the  tremendous  voice  with  which  this  monster 
mswered    the    challenge    of  the    heroic    Tom    Kicka- 

rHRIFT  '! 

If  from  these  we  turn  to  compositions,  universally  and 
ndependently  of  all  early  associations,  beloved  and  ad- 
nired,  would  the  Maria,  The  Moick,  or  The  Poor 
Man's  Ass  of  Sterne,  be  read  with  more  delight,  or 
vdve  a  better  chance  of  immortalit}^  had  they,  without 
my  change  in  the  diction,  been  composcKl  in  rhyme, 
ban  in  the  present  state  ?  If  I  am  not  grossly  mistaken, 
.he  general  reply  would  be  in  the  negative.  Nay,  I 
m\\  confess,  that  in  Mr.  Wordsworth's  owm  volumes,  the 
\necdote  for  Fathers,  Simon  Lee,  Alice  Fell,  The 
Beggars,  and  The  Sailor's  Mother,  notwithstanding 
he  beauties  which  are  to  be  found  in  each  of  them, 
tvhere  the  poet  interposes  the  music  of  his  own  thoughts, 
ivould  have  been  more  delightful  to  m^  in  prose,  told 
md  managed,  as  by  Mr.  Wordsw^orth  they  would  have 
been,  in  a  moral  essay,  or  pedestrian  tour. 


48 

I\]etre  in  ilself  is  sirnpl}^  a  stimulant  of  the  .attention, 
urn]  therefore  excites  the  question,  Why  is  the  atten- 
tion to  be  thus  stimulated  ?  Now  the  question  cannot  be 
answered  by  the  yjleasure  of  the  metre  itself;  for  thi^ 
we  have  shown  to  l)e  conditional,,  and  dependent  on  the 
appropriateness  of  the  thoughts  and  expressions,  to 
which  tlie  metrical,  form  is  superadded.  Neither  can  I 
conceive  any  other  ansv/er  that  can  be  rationally  given, 
<hort  of  this  :  I  write  in  metre,  because  I  am  about  to 
use  a  lani^uai2;e  diilerent  from  that  of  prose.  Besides, 
where  tlie  language  is  not  such,  how  interesting  soever 
the  reflections  are  that  are  capable  of  being  drawn  by 
a  })hiIosophic  mind  from  the  thouglits  or  incidents  of  the 
poem,  the  n)etre  itself  must  often  become  feeble.  Take 
the  three  last  stanzas  of  the  Sailor's  Mother,  for  in- 
stance. \t  I  could  for  a  moment  abstract  from  the  effect 
produced  on  the  author's  feelings,  as  a  man,  by  the  inci- 
dent at  tlie  time  of  its  real  occurrence,  I  would  dare  ap- 
j)eal  to  his  own  judgment,  whether  in  the  metre  itself  he 
found  a  sulncient  reason  for  their  being  written  mCtri- 
.cally  ? 


'-  And  thus  continuing,  she  said 
1  had  a  son,  who  many  a  day 
Sailed  on  the  seas;  but  he  is  dead; 
In  Denmark  he  was  cast  away  : 
And  I  have  travelled  far  as  Hall,  to  see 
What  clothes  he  might  have  left,  or  other  property. 

The  bird  and  cage,  they  both  were  his  ; 

'Twas  my  son's  bird  ;  and  neat  and  trim 

He  kept  it  ;  many  voyages 

This  singing  bird  hath  gone  with  him  : 

Wlien  last  he  sailed  he  left  the  bird  behind  ; 

As  it  might  be,  perhaps,  from  bodings  of  his  mind. 

He  to  a  fellow-lodger's  care 
Had  left  it,  to  be  watched  and  fed, 
Till  he  came  back  again  ;  and  there 
I  f^)und  it  when  my  son  was  dead ; 
And  now,  God  help  me  for  my  httle  wit ! 
i  trail  it  with  me,  Sir  !  he  took  30  much  delight  in  it.'* 


49 

If  disproportioning  the  emphasis  we  read  these  stanzas 
so  as  to  make  the  rhymes  perceptible,  even  trisyllable 
rhymes  could  scarcely  produce  an  equal  sense  of  oddity 
and  strangeness,  as  we  feel  here  in  finding  rhymes  at  all 
in  sentences  so  exclusively  colloquial.  I  would  further 
ask  whether,  but  for  that  visionary  state,  into  which  the 
figure  of  the  woman  and  the  susceptibility  of  his  own 
genius  had  placed  the  poet's  imagination  (a  state,  which 
spreads  its  influence  and  colouring  over  all  that  co-exists 
with  the  exciting  cause,  and  in  which 

**  The  simplest,  and  the  most  familiar  things 

Gain  a  strange  power  of  spreading  awe  around  them  ;"*) 

I  would  ask  the  poet  whether  he  would  not  have  felt 
an  abrupt  downfall  in  these  verses  from  the  preceding 
stanza  ? 

*^  The  ancient  spirit  is  not  dead ; 

Old  times,  thought  I,  are  breathing  there  ! 

Proud  was  I,  that  my  country  bred 

Such  strength,  a  dignity  so  fair  ! 

She  begged  an  alms,  like  one  in  poor  estate ; 

I  looked  at  her  again,  nor  did  my  pride  abate.*' 

It  must  not  be  omitted,  and  is,  besides,  worthy  of  no- 
tice, that  those  stanzas  furnish  the  only  fair  instance  that 
I  have  been  able  to  discover  in  all  Mr.  Wordsworth's 
writings,  of  an  actual  adoption,  or  true  imitation,  of  the 
real  and  very  language  of  lom;  and  rustic  life,  freed  from 
provincialisms. 

Thirdly ;  1  deduce  the  position  from  all  the  causes  else- 
where assigned,  which  render  metre  the  proper  form  of 
poetry,  and  poetry  imperfect  and  defective  without  me- 
tre. Metre,  therefore,  having  been  connected  with  poetry 

*  Altered  from  the  description  of  Night-Mare  in  the  Remorse: 

"  Oh  Heaven  I  'twas  frightful !  Now  run-down  and  stared  at^^ 

By  hidious  shapes  that  cannot  be  remembered; 

Now  seeing  nothing-,  and  ima^in^  nothing ; 

But  only  being  afraid — f^tiflRed  with  fear  I 

While  every  goodly  or  familiar  form 

Had  a  strange  power  of  spreading  terror  round  me:'* 
N.  B.  Thongh  Snakspeare  has,  for  his  own  all-jwitifying  purposes  ia- 
troduc  ed  the  iNigkt-^Uarc  with  her  own  foals,  yet  Mair  means  a  lister,  or 
periiaps  a  Hag, 

Vol.  if.  5 


50 

most  often  and  by  a  peculiar  fitness,  whatever  else  is 
combined  with  metre  must,  though  it  be  not  itself  essen- 
tia//?/ poetic,  have  nevertheless  some  property  in  common 
with  poetry,  as  an  intermedium  of  affinity,  a  sort  (if  I 
may  dare  borrow  a  well-known  phrase  from  technical 
chemistry)  of  mordaiint  between  it  and  the  superadded 
metre.  Now,  poetry,  Mr.  Wordsworth  truly  affirms,  does 
always  imply  passion,  which  word  must  be  here  under- 
stood in  its  most  general  sense,  as  an  excited  state  of  the 
feelings  and  faculties.  And  as  every  passion  has  its  pro- 
per pulse,  so  will  it  likewise  have  its  characteristic  modes 
of  expression.  But  where  there  exists  that  degree  of 
genius  and  talent  which  entitles  a  writer  to  aim  at  the 
honours  of  a  poet,  the  very  act  of  poetic  composition 
itself  is,  and  is  allowed  to  imply  and  to  produce,  an  unusu- 
al state  of  excitement,  which,  of  course,  justifies  and  de- 
mands a  correspondent  difference  of  language,  as  truly, 
though  not  perhaps  in  as  marked  a  degree,  as  the  ex- 
citement of  love,  fear,  rage,  or  jealousy.  The  vividness 
of  the  descriptions  or  declamations  in  Donne,  or  Dryden, 
is  as  much  and  as  often  derived  from  the  force  and  fervour 
of  the  describer,  as  from  the  reflections,  forms,  or  inci- 
dents, which  constitute  their  subject  and  materials.  The 
wheels  take  fire  from  the  mere  rapidity  of  their  motion. 
To  what  extent,  and  under  what  modifications,  this  may 
be  admitted  to  act,  I  shall  attempt  to  define  in  an  after 
remark  on  Mr.  Wordsworth's  reply  to  this  objection,  or 
rather  on  his  objection  to  this  reply,  as  already  anticipat- 
ed in  his  preface. 

Fourthly  ;  and  as  intimately  connected  with  this,  if  not 
the  same  argument  in  a  more  general  form,  1  adduce  the 
high  spiritual  instinct  of  the  human  being,  impelling  us 
to  seek  unity  by  harmonious  adjustment,  and  thus  esta- 
blishing the  principle,  that  all  the  parts  of  an  organized 
whole  must  be  assimilated  to  the  more  important  and  es- 
sential  parts.  This  and  the  preceding  arguments  may  be 
strengthened  by  the  reflection,  that  the  composition  of  a 
poem  is  among  the  Imitative  arts,  and  that  imitation,  as 
opposed  to  copying,  consists  either  in  the  interfusion  of 
the  SAME,  throughout  tiie  radically  different,  or  of  the 
different  throughout  a  base  radically  the  same. 

Lasr^y  :  I  appeal  to  the  practice  of  the  best  poets  of 
all  countries  sind  in  all  ages,  as  authorizing  the  opinion^ 


31 

[deduced  from  all  the  foregoing)  that  in  every  inaport  of 
the  word  essential,  which  would  not  here  involve  a 
mere  truism,  there  may  be,  is,  and  ought  to  be,  an  €sse?i'- 
tial  difference  between  the  language  of  prose  and  of 
metrical  composition. 

In  Mr.  Wordsworth's  criticism  of  Gray's  Sonnet,  the 
reader's  sympathy  with  his  praise  or  blame  of  the  differ- 
ent parts  is  taken  for  granted,  rather  perhaps  too  easily. 
He  has  not,  at  least,  attempted  to  win  or  compel  it  by 
argumentative  analysis.  In  my  conception,  at  least,  the 
lines  rejected,  as  of  no  value,  do,  with  the  exception  of 
the  two  first,  differ  as  much  and  as  little  from  the  lan- 
guage of  common  life  as  those  which  he  has  printed  in 
italics,  as  possessing  genuine  excellence.  Of  the  five 
lines  thus  honourably  distinguished,  two  of  them  differ 
from  prose  even  more  widely  than  the  lines  which  either 
precede  or  follow,  in  the  position  of  the  words  : 

'*  A  different  object  do  these  eyes  require  ; 
My  lonely  anguish  melts  no  heart  but  mine  ; 
And  in  my  breast  the  imperfect  joys  expireJ*^ 

But  were  it  otherwise,  what  would  this  prove,  but  a 
truth,  of  which  no  man  ever  doubted  ?  videlicet,  that 
there  are  sentences  which  would  be  equally  in  their 
place,  both  in  verse  and  prose.  Assuredly  it  does  not 
prove  the  point,  which  alone  requires  proof,  namely, 
that  there  are  not  passages  which  would  suit  the  one, 
and  not  suit  the  other.  The  first  hues  of  this  sonnet  is 
distinguished  from  the  ordinary  language  of  men  by  the 
epithet  to  morning.  (For  we  will  set  aside,  at  present, 
the  consideration  that  the  particular  word  "  smiling*'^ 
is  hackneyed,  and,  (as  it  involves  a  sort  of  personifica- 
tion,) not  quite  congruous  with  the  common  and  material 
attribute  of  shining,^  And,  doubtless,  this  adjunction  of 
epithets,  for  the  purpose  of  additional  description,  where 
no  particular  attention  is  demanded  for  the  quahty  of  the 
thing,  would  be  noticed  as  giving  a  poetic  cast  to  a  man's 
conversation.  Should  the  sportman  exclaim,  **  come 
boys !  the  rosy  morning  calls  you  up,^^he  will  be  suppos- 
ed to  have  some  song  in  his  head.  But  no  one  suspects 
this,  when  he  says,  "  A  wet  morning  shall  not  confine  us 
to  our  beds."     This  then  is  either  a  defect  in  poetry,  i>j? 


52 

i,t  1s  not.     WhoeveF  should  decide  in  the  affirmaiive, 
would  request  him  to  re-peruse  any  one  poem,  of  any  con| 
fessedJy  great  poet  from  Homer  to  Milton,  or  from  Eschyj 
Jus  to  Shakspeare,  and  to  strke  out  (in  thought  I  rr.ean,1 
every  instance  of  this  kind.     \{  the  number  of  these  fan-* 
cied  erasures  did    not   startle  him,  or  if  he  continued  to 
deem  the  work  improved  by  their  total  omission,  he  must 
advance  reasons  of  no  ordinary  strength  and  evidence — 
reasons  grounded  in  the  essence  of  human  nature  ;  other- 
wise I  should  not  hesitate  to  consider  him   as   a  man  not 
so  much  proof  against  all  authority,  as  dead  to  it. 
The  second  line, 

*'  And  reddening  Phosbus  lifts  his  golden  fire.** 

has  indeed  almost  as  many  faults  as  words.  But  then  it 
is  a  bad  line,  not  because  the  language  is  distinct  from 
that  of  prose  ;  but  because  it  conveys  incongruous  ima- 
g<;s,  because  it  confounds  the  cause  and  the  effect,  the 
peal  thing  with  the  personified  representative  of  the  thing  ; 
in  short,  because  it  diSers  from  the  language  of  good 
SENSE  !  That  the  **  Phcebus"  is  hacknied,  and  a  school- 
boy image,  is  an  accidental  fault,  dependent  on  the  age  in 
which  the  author  wrote,  and  not  deduced  from  the  nature 
of  the  thing.  That  it  is  part  of  an  exploded  mythology, 
is  an  objection  more  deeply  grounded.  Yet  when  the 
torch  of  ancient  learning  was  re-kindled,  so  cheering  were 
its  beams,  that  our  eldest  poets,  cut  off  by  Christianity 
from  ail  accredited  machinery,  and  deprived  of  all  ac- 
knowledged  guardians  and  symbols  of  the  great  objects  of 
nature,  were  naturally  induced  to  adopt,  as  sl  poetic  lan- 
guage, those  fabulous  personages,  those  forms  of  the  su- 
pernatural in  nature,*  which  had  given  them  such  dear  de- 
light in  the  poems  of  their  great  masters.  Nay,  even  at 
this  day,  what  scholar  of  genial  taste  will  not  so  far  sym- 
pathise with  them,  as  to  read  with  pleasure  in  Petrach, 
Chaucer,  or  Spenser,  what  he  would  perhaps  condemn 
as  puerile  in  a  modern  poet? 

*  But  still  more  by  the  mechanical  system  of  philosophy  which  has 
fieedlessly  infected  otir  theolog^ical  opinions;  and  teaching"  us  to  consider 
the  world:  in  its  relation  to  God,  as  of  a  building  to  its  masoji,  leaves  the 
idea  of  oamipresence  a  mere  abati-act  notiea  ki  the  state-room  of  o-^r 
teasocK 


53 

I  remember  no  poet  whose  writings  would  safelier 
stand  the  test  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  theory,  than  Spknser. 
Yet  will  Mr.  Wordsworth  say,  that  the  style  of  the  fol- 
lowing stanzas  is  either  undistinguished  from  prose,  and 
the  language  of  ordinary  life  ?  Or,  that  it  is  vicious,  and 
that  the  stanzas  are  blots  in  the  Faery  Queen  ? 

"  By  this  the  northern  wagg'oner  had  set 

His  sevenfold  teme  behind  the  steadfast  starre. 

That  was  in  ocean  waves  yet  never  wet, 

But  firm  is  fixtand  sendeth  lig-ht  from  farre 

To  all  that  in  the  wild  deep  wandering  are. 

And  cheerful  chanticleer  with  his  note  shrill 

Had  warned  once  that  Phoebus's  fiery  carre 

In  haste  was  climbing  up  the  eastern  hill, 

Full  envious  that  night  so  long  his  room  did  fill.*' 

Book  /.  Can.  2,  St.  £. 

**  At  last  the  golden  orientall  gate 

Of  greatest  heaven  gan  to  open  fay  re. 

And  Phoebus  fresh  as  brydegrome  to  his  mate, 

Came  dauncing-  forth,  shaking  his  deawie  hayre, 

And  hurl'd  his  glist'ring"  beams  through  gloomy  ayre  ; 

Which  when  the  wakeful  elfe  perceived,  streightway 

He  started  up,  and  did  him  selfe  prepay  re 

In  sun-bright  armes,  and  battailous  array  ; 

For  with  that  pagan  proud  he  combat  will  that  day.'* 

J5.  /.  Can.  5,  St.  £. 

On  the  contrary,  to  how  many  passages,  both  in  hymn 
books  and  in  blank  verse  poems,  could  1  (were  it  not  in- 
vidious,) direct  the  reader's  attention,  the  style  of  which 
is  most  unpoetic,  because,  and  only  because,  it  is  the  style 
€>f  prose?  lie  will  not  suppose  me  capable  of  having  in 
my  mind  such  verses,  as 

**  I  put  my  hat  upon  my  head 
And  walk'd  into  the  strand  ; 
And  there  I  met  another  raan- 
Whose  hat  was  in  his  hand." 

To  such  specimens  it  would  indeed  be  a  fair  and  full 
reply,  that  these  lines  are  not  bad,  because  they  a»e  un- 
£oetic  :  but  because  they   are  empty   of  all  sense  and^ 

5* 


34 

f^elingc  and  that  it  were  an  idle  attempt  to  prove  thai 
an  ape  is  not  a  Newton,  when  it  i?i  evident  that  he  is  not 
a  man.  But  the  sense  shall  be  good  and  weighty,  the 
language  correct  and  dignified,  the  subject  interesting 
and  treated  with  feeling  ;  and  yet  the  style  shall,  not- 
withstanding all  these  merits,  be  justly  blamable  as  prO' 
saic,  and  solely  because  the  words  and  the  order  of  (he 
words  would  find  their  appropriate  place  in  prose,  but 
are  not  suitable  to  metrical  composition.  The  ''  Civil 
Wars"  of  Daniel  is  an  instructive,  and  even  interesting 
Work  ;  but  take  the  following  stanzas,  (and  from  the  hun- 
dred instances  which  abound  I  might  probably  have  se- 
lected others  far  more  striking.) 

**  And  to  the  end  we  may  with  better  ease 
Discern  the  true  discourse,  vouchsafe  to  show 
What  were  the  times  foregoing  near  to  these, 
That  these  we  may  with  better  profit  know. 
Tell  how  the  world  fell  into  this  disease  ; 
And  how  so  great  disteraperature  did  grow; 
So  shall  we  see  with  what  degrees  it  came  ; 
How  things  at  full  do  soon  wax  out  of  frame.** 

•*  Ten  kings  had  from  the  Norman  conqu'ror  reign'd 
With  intermixt  and  variable  fate. 
When  England  to  her  greatest  height  attain'd 
Of  power,  dominion,  g"lcry,  wealth,  and  state  ; 
After  it  had  with  nmch  ado  sustain'd 
The  violence  of  princes  with  debate 
For  titles,  and  the  often  mutinies 
Of  nobles  for  their  ancient  liberties." 

•*  For  first  the  Norman,  conqu'ring  all  by  might. 
By  might  was  forced  to  keep  what  he  had  got ; 
Mixing  our  customs  and  the  form  of  right 
With  foreign  constitutions,  he  had  brought ; 
Mastering  the  mighty,  humbling- the  poorer  wight. 
By  all  severest  means  that  could  be  wrought ; 
And  making  the  succession  doubtful  rent 
llis  new-got  state  and  left  it  turbulent  *' 

B,  I.  St  VIL  VIIL  4'  IX, 

Will  it  be  contended,  on  the  one  side,  that  these  lines 
are  mean  and  senseless  ?  Or  on  the  other,  that  they  are 
not  prosaic,  and  for  that  reason  unpoetic  ?  This  poet's 
well -merited    epithet    is    that  of  the    *'  well'languaged 


Daniel ;"  but  likewise,  and  by  the  consent  of  his  contempo  - 
raries  no  less  than  of  all  succeeding  critics,  the  ''  prosaic 
Daniel/'  Yet  those,  who  thus  designate  this  wise  and 
amiable  writer  from  the  frequent  incorrespondency  of 
his  diction  to  his  metre  in  the  majority  of  his  compositions, 
not  only  deem  them  valuable  and  interesting  on  other  ac- 
counts, but  willingly  admit,  that  there  are  to  be  found 
throughout  his  poems,  and  especially  in  his  Epistles  and 
in  his  Hyjnen's  Triumph,  many  and  exquisite  specimens 
of  that  style  which,  as  the  neutral  ground  of  prose  and 
-verse,  is  common  to  both.  A  fine,  and  almost  faultless 
extract,  eminent  as  for  other  beauties,  so  for  its  perfec- 
tion in  this  species  of  diction,  may  be  seen  in  Lamb's 
Dramatic  Specimens,  &c.  a  work  of  various  interests 
from  the  nature  of  the  selections  themselves  (all  from  the 
plays  of  Shakspeare's  contemporaries)  and  deriving  a 
high  additional  value  from  the  notes,  which  are  full  of 
just  and  original  criticism,  expressed  with  all  the  fresh- 
ness of  originality. 

Among  the  possible  effects  of  practical  adherence  to  a 
theory,  that  aims  to  identify  the  style  of  prose  and  verse, 
(if  it  does,  indeed,  claim  for  the  latter  a  yet  nearer  re- 
semblance to  the  average  style  of  men  in  the  viva  voce 
intercourse  of  real  life)  we  might  anticipate  the  following, 
as  not  the  least  likely  to  occur.  It  will  happen,  as  I 
have  indeed  before  observed,  that  the  metre  itself,  the 
sole  acknowledged  difference,  will  occasionally  become 
metre  to  the  eye  only.  The  existence  of  prosaisms,  and 
that  they  detract  from  the  merit  of  a  poem,  must  at 
length  be  conceded,  when  a  number  of  successive  lines 
can  be  rendered,  even  to  the  most  delicate  ear,  unrecog- 
nizable as  verse,  or  as  having  even  been  intended  for 
verse,  by  simply  transcribing  them  as  prose  ;  when,  if 
the  poem  be  in  blank  verse,  this  can  be  effected  without 
any  alteration,  or  at  most  by  merely  restoring  one  or 
,  two  words  to  their  proper  places,  from  which  they  had 
been  transplanted*  for  no  assignable  cause  or  reason,  but 

*  As  the  inpfenious  gentleman,  under  the  influence  of  the   Tragic  Muse 
contrived  to  dislocate,  "  I  wish  you  a  good  morning-,    Sir,  !  Thank  }  ou, 
Sir,  and  I  wish  you  the  same,'"  into  two'blank- verse  heroics  : — 
To  you  a  morning  good,  good  Sir  .'  I  \vish. 
You,  Sir  !  I  thank  :  to  you  the  same  wish  I. 
In  those  parts  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  works,  which  1  have   thoroughlj 
■studied,  I  find  fewer  instances  ia  which  this  would  be  practicable  than  ^ 


56 

that  of  the  author's  convenience  ;  but  if  it  be  in  rhyme,, 
by  the  mere  exchange  of  the  final  word  of  each  hne  for 
some  other  of  the  same  meaning,  equally  appropriate, 
dignified  and  euphonic. 

The  answer  or  objection  in  the  preface  to  the  antici- 
pated remark  ''that  metre  paves  the  way  to  other  dis- 
tinctions," is  contained  in  the  following  words.  ''  The 
distinction  of  rhyme  and  metre  is  voluntary  and  uniform, 
and  not  like  that  produced  by  (what  is  called)  poetic  dic- 
tion, arbitrary,  and  subject  to  infinite  caprices,  upon  which 
no  calculation  whatever  can  be  made.  In  the  one  case 
the  reader  is  utterly  at  the  mercy  of  the  poet  respecting 
what  imagery  or  diction  he  may  choose  to  connect  with 
the  passion."  But  is  this  apoe^,  of  whom  a  poet  is  speak- 
ing ?  No  surely  !  rather  of  a  fool  or  madman  ;  or,  at 
best,  of  a  vain  or  ignorant  phantast !  And  might  not  brains 
so  wild  and  so  deficient  make  just  the  same  havock  with 
rhymes  and  metres,  as  they  are  supposed  to  effect  with 
modes  and  figures  of  speech  ?  How  is  the  reader  at  the 
mercy  of  such  men  ?  If  he  continue  to  read  their  non- 
sense, is  it  not  his  own  fault  ?  The  ultimate  end  of  criti- 
cism is  much  more  to  establish  the  principles  of  writing, 
than  to  furnish  rules  how  to  pass  judgment  on  what  has 
been  written  by  others  ;  if  indeed  it  were  possible  that 
the  two  could  be  separated.  But  if  it  be  asked,  by  what 
principles  the  poet  is  to  regulate  his  own  style,  if  he  do 
not  adhere  closely  to  the  sort  and  order  of  words  which 

have  met  in  many  poems,  where  an  approximation  of  prose  has  been 
sedulously,  and  on  system,  guarded  against.  Indeed,  excepting  the  stanzas 
already  quoted  from  the  Sailor^s  Mother^  I  can  recollect  but  one  instance  ; 
viz.  a  short  passage  of  four  or  five  lines  in  The  Brothers,  that  model  of 
English  pastoral,  which  I  never  yet  read  with  unclouded  eye. — "  James, 
pointing  to  its  summit,  over  which  they  had  all  purposfdto  return  together, 
informed  them  that  he  would  wait  for  them  there.  They  p.  •  ted,  and  hi« 
comrades  passed  that  way  some  two  hours  after,  but  they  did  not  find  him 
at  the  appointed  place,  a  circumstance  of  which  they  took  no  keed .  but  one 
of  them  going  by  chance  into  the  house,  which  at  this  time  was  Jumes's 
house,  learnt  Mere,  that  nobody  had  seen  him  all  that  day.'*  The  only 
charge  which  has  been  made  is  in  the  position  of  the  little  word  there  in 
two  instances,  the  position  in  the  original  being  clearlj'^  such  as  is  not 
adopted  in  ordinar)--  conversation.  The  other  words  printed  in  italics, 
were  so  marked  because,  though  good  and  geiiiiine  English,  they  are  not 
the  phraseology  of  common  conversation  eitiier  in  the  word  put  in  appo- 
sition, or  in  the  connection  by  the  genitive  pronoun.  Men  in  aeneral 
would  have  said,  "  but  that  was  a  circumstance  they  paid  no  attention  to, 
or  took  no  notice  of,"  and  the  language  is,  on  the  theory  of  the  preface, 
justified  only  by  the  narrator's  being  the  Vicar.  Yet  if  any  ear  coidd 
suspect,  that  these  sentences  were  ever  printed  as  metre,  on  those  very 
nords  aJone  could  the  suspicion  have  been  grounded. 


5r 

Be  hears  in  the  market,  wake,  high-road,  or  plough-field  ? 
I  reply  ;  by  principles,  the  ignorance  or  neglect  of  which 
would  convict  him  of  being  no  poet,  but  a  silly  or  pre-^ 
sumptuous  usurper  of  the  name  I  By  the  principles  of 
grammar,  logic,  psychology  !  In  one  word,  by  such  a 
knowledge  of  the  facts,  material  and  spiritual,  that  most 
appertain  to  his  art,  as  if  it  have  been  governed  and  ap- 
phed  by  good  sense,  and  rendered  instinctive  by  habit, 
becomes  the  representative  and  reward  of  our  past  con- 
scious reasonings,  insights,  and  conclusions,  and  acquires 
the  name  of  taste.  By  what  rule  that  does  not  leave 
the  reader  at  the  poet's  mercy,  and  the  poet  at  his  own, 
is  the  latter  to  distinguish  between  the  language  suitable 
to  suppressed,  and  the  language  which  is  characteristic 
of  indulged,  anger  ?  Or  between  that  of  rage  and  that  of 
jealousy  ?  Is  it  obtained  by  wandering  about  in  search 
of  angry  or  jealous  people  in  uncultivated  society,  in 
order  to  copy  their  words  ?  Or  not  far  rather  by  the 
power  of  imagination  proceeding  upon  the  all  in  each  of 
human  nature  ?  By  meditation,  rather  than  by  observa- 
tion ?  And  by  the  latter  in  consequence  only  of  the 
former  ?  As  eyes,  for  which  the  former  has  pre-deter- 
mined  their  field  of  vision,  and  to  which,  as  to  its  organ, 
it  communicates  a  microscopic  power  ?  There  is  not,  I 
iirmly  believe,  a  man  now  living,  who  has  from  his  own 
inward  experience  a  clearer  intuition  than  Mr.  Words- 
worth himself,  that  the  last  mentioned  are  the  true  sour- 
ces of  genial  discrimination.  Through  the  same  protess, 
and  by  the  same  creative  agency,  will  the  poet  distin- 
guish the  degree  and  kind  of  the  excitement  produced  by 
the  very  act  of  poetic  composition.  As  intuitively  will 
he  know,  whatdifl'erences  of  style  it  at  once  inspires  and 
justifies  ;  what  intermixture  of  conscious  volition  is  natu- 
ral to  that  state  ;  and  in  what  instances  such  figures  and 
colours  of  speech  degenerate  into  mere  creatures  of  an 
arbitrary  purpose,  cold  technical  artifices  of  ornament  or 
connection.  For  even  as  truth  is  its  own  light  and  evi- 
denc/5,  discovering  at  once  itself  and  falsehood,  so  is  it 
the  prerogative  of  poetic  genius  to  distinguish,  by  paren- 
tal instinct,  its  proper  offspring  from  the  changelings 
which  the  gnomes  of  vanity  or  the  fairies  of  fashion  may 
have  laid  in  its  cradle,  or  called  by  its  names.  Could  a 
vule  be  given  from  unthout,  poetry    would  cease  to  be 


38 

poetry,  and  sink  into  a  mechanical  art.  It  would  be 
jioy(j:<oaij  not  TToiTio-if.  The  rules  of  the  imagination  are 
themselves  the  very  powers  of  growth  and  production. 
The  words  to  which  they  are  reducible  present  only  the 
outlines  and  external  appearance  of  the  fruit.  A  decep- 
tive counterfeit  of  the  superficial  form  and  colors  may  be 
elaborated  ;  but  the  marble  peach  feels  cold  and  heavy, 
and  children  only  put  it  to  their  mouths.  We  find  no 
difficulty  in  admitting  as  excellent,  and  the  legitimate 
language  of  poetic  fervor  self-impassioned,  Donne's 
apostrophe  to  the  Sun  in  the  second  stanza  of  his  ''  Pro- 
gress of  the  Soul." 

"  Thee,  eye  of  heaven  !  this  great  soul  envies  not ; 
By  thy  male  force  is  all,  we  have,  begot. 
In  the  first  East  thou  now  begin o'st  to  shine, 
Suck'st  early  balm  and  island  spices  there  ; 
And  wilt  anon  in  thy  loose-rein'd  career 
At  Tagus,  Po,  Seine,  Thames,  and  Danow  dine, 
And  see  at  night  this  western  world  of  mine  : 
Yet  hast  thou  not  more  nations  seen  than  she, 
Who  before  thee  one  day  began  to  be, 
And,  thy  frail  light,  being  quenched,  shall  long,  long  out* 
live  thee !" 

©r  the  next  stanza  but  one  ; 


**  Great  destiny,  the  commissary  of  God, 
That  hast  marked  out  a  path  and  period 
For  ev'ry  thing  !  Who,  where  we  offspring  took^ 
Our  ways  and  ends  see'st  at  one  instant :  thou 
Knot  of  all  causes  !     Thou,  whose  changeless  brow 
Ne'er  smiles  or  frowns  !  O  vouchsafe  thou  to  look. 
And  show  my  story  in  thy  eternal  book,"  &«. 


As  little  difficulty  do  we  find  in  excluding  from  the 
honours  of  unajffected  warmth  and  elevation  the  madness 
prepense  of  Pseudo-poesy,  or  the  startling  hysteric  of 
weakness  ever  exerting  itself,  which  bursts  on  the  un- 
prepared reader  in  sundry  odes  and  apostrophes  to  ab- 
stract terms.  Such  are  the  Odes  to  Jealousy,  to  Hope, 
to  Oblivion,  and  the  like  in  Dodsley's  collection  and  the 
magazines  of  that  day,  which  seldom  fail  to  remind  me 
of  an  Oxford  copy  of  verse*  on  the  two  Suttons,  com- 
mencing with 

"'  Inoculation,  heavenly  maid  !  descend !" 


\ 


59 

It  is  \)0t  to  be  denied  that  men  of  undoubted  talents/ 
and  even  poets  of  true,  though  not  of  first  r.*>te  genius, 
have,  from  a  mistaken  theory,  deluded  both  themselves 
and  others  in  the  opposite  extreme.  I  once  read  to  a 
company  of  sensible  and  well-educated  women  the  in- 
troductory period  of  Cowley's  preface  to  his  ''Pindaric 
Odes,  written  in  imitation  of  the  style  and  manner  of  the 
odes  ef  Pindar,""  "  If  (says  Cowley)  a  man  should  un- 
dertake to  translate  Pindar,  word  for  word,  it  would  be 
thought  that  one  madman  had  translated  another  ;  as 
may  appear,  when  he,  that  understands  not  the  or^ji'^^^* 
reads  the  verbal  traduction  of  him  into  Latin  prose,  than 
which  nothing  seems  more  raving."  I  then  proceeded 
with  his  own  free  version  of  the  second  Olympic,  com- 
posed for  the  charitable  purpose  of  rationalizing  the 
Theban  Eagle. 

"  Queen  of  all  harmonious  things, 

DanciDg"  words  and  speaking  strings. 

What  God,  what  hero,  wilt  thou  sing  ? 

What  happy  man  to  equal  glories  bring? 

Begin,  begin  thy  noble  choice. 

And  let  the  hills  around  reflect  the  image  of  thy  voice* 

Pisa  does  to  Jove  belong, 

Jove  and  Pisa  claim  thy  song. 

The  fair  first-fruits  of  war,  th'  Olympic  games, 

Alcides  offer'd  up  to  Jove  ; 

Alcides  too  thy  strings  may  move  ! 

But  oh  !   what  man  to  join  with  these  can  worthy  prove? 

Join  Theron  boldly  to  their  sacred  names  ; 

Tl^jeron  the  next  honour  claims  ; 

Theron  to  no  man  gives  place  ; 

Is  first  in  Pisa's  and  in  Virtue's  race  ;' 

Theron  there,  and  he  alone, 

E'en  his  own  swift  forefathers  has  outgone.*' 

One  of  the  company  exclaimed,  with  the  full  assent  of 
the  rest,  that  if  the  original  were  madder  than  this,  it 
must  be  incurably  mad.  1  then  translated  the  ode  from 
the  Greek,  and,  as  nearly  as  possible,  word  for  word  ; 
and  the  impression  was,  that  in  the  general  movement  of 
the  periods,  in  the  form  of  the  conqiections  and  transi- 
tions, and  in  the  sober  majesty  of  lofty  sense,  it  appeared 
^Q  them  to  approacti  more  aearly  than  any  other  poetry 


60 

ihey  had  heard,  to  the  st}  le  of  our  bible  in  the  prophetri. 
books.     The  tirst  strophe  will  suffice  as  a  specimen. 

'<  Ye  harp-controulin^  hymns !  (or)  ye  hymns  the  sovereigns 

of  harps  ! 
What  God  ?  what  Hero  ? 
What  man  shall  we  celebrate  ? 
Truly  Pisa  is  of  Jove, 
But   the   Olympiad  (or  the  Olympic  games)  did  Hercules 

establish. 
The  first  fruits  of  the  spoils  of  war. 
But  Theron  for  the  four-horsed  car, 
That  bore  victory  to  him, 
It  behooves  us  now  to  voice  aloud  ; 
The  Just,  the  Hospitable, 
The  Bulwark  of  Agrigentum, 
Of  renowned  fathers 
The  Flower,  even  him 
Who  preserves  kis  native  city  erect  and  safe.'* 

But  are  such  rhetorical  caprices  condemnable  only  for 
Iheir  deviation  from  their  language  of  real  life  ?  and  are 
they  by  no  other  means  to  be  precluded,  but  by  the  re- 
jection of  all  distinctions  betw^een  prose  and  verse,  save 
that  of  metre  ?  Surely  good  sense,  and  a  moderate  in- 
sight into  the  constitution  of  the  human  mind,  would  be 
amply  sufficient  to  prove,  that  such  language  and  such 
combinations  are  the  native  produce  neither  of  the  fancy 
nor  of  the  imagination  ;  that  their  operation  consists  in 
.the  excitement  of  surprize  by  the  juxta-position  and  ap- 
parent reconciliation  of  widely  diflerent  or  incompatible 
things.  As  when,  for  instance,  the  hills  are  made  to  re- 
flect the  image  of  a  voice.  Surely,  no  unusual  taste  is 
requisite  to  see  clearly,  and  that  this  compulsory  juxta- 
position is  not  produced  by  the  presentation  of  impressive 
or  delightful  forms  to  the  inward  vision,  nor  by  any 
sympathy  with  the  modifying  powers  with  which  the  ge- 
nius of  the  poet  had  united  and  inspirited  all  the  objects 
of  his  thought  ;  that  it  is  therefore  a  species  of  wit,  a 
pure  work  of  the  will,  and  implies  a  leisure  and  self-pos- 
session both  of  thought  and  of  feeling,  incompatible  with 
the  steady  fervour  of  a  mind  possessed  and  filled  with  the 
grandeur  of  its  subject.  'I'o  sum  up  the  whole  in  one 
sentence  :  When  a  poem,  or  a  part  of  a  poem,  shall  be 
adduced,  which^is  evidently  vicious  in  the  figures  and 


61 

contexture  of  its  style,  yet  for  the  condemnation  of  which 
no  reason  can  be  assigned,  except  that  it  differs  from  the 
style  in  which  men  actually  converse ;  then,  and  not  till 
then,  can  I  hold  this  theory  to  be  either  plausible  or 
practicable,  or  capable  of  furaishing  either  rule,  guidance, 
er  precaution,  that  might  not,  more  easily  and  more 
safely,  as  well  as  more  naturally,  have  been  deduced  in 
the  author's  own  mind,  from  considerations  of  grammar, 
logic,  and  the  truth  and  nature  of  things,  confirmed  by  the 
authority  of  works,  whose  fame  is  not  of  one  country, 
nor  of  ONE  age. 


Vol,  II. 


62 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Continuation — Concerning  the  real  object  whichi  it  is  pro- 
bable, Mr.  Wordsrvorih  had  before  him  in  his  critical 
preface — Elucidation  and  application  of  this. 

It  mii^ht  appear  from  some  passages  in  the  former  part 
of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  preface,  that  he  mean:  to  confine 
his  theory  of  style,  and  the  necessity  of  a  close  accordance 
with  the  actual  language  of  men,  to  those  particular  sub- 
jects from  low  and  rustic  life,  which,  by  way  of  experi- 
ment, he  had  purposed  to  naturalize  as  a  new  species  in 
our  English  poetry.     But  from  the  train  of  argument  that 
follow^s  ;  from    the   reference  to  Milton  ;  and  from  the 
:?pirit  of  his  critique  on  Gray's  sonnet,  those  sentences 
appear  to  have  been  rather  courtesies  of  modesty  than 
actual  limitations  of  his  system.     Yet  so  groundless  does 
this  system  appear  on  a  close  examination  ;  and  so  strange 
and  overwhelming  in   its  consequences,^   that  I   cannot, 
and  I  do  not,  believe  that  the  poet  did  ever  himself  adopt 
it  in  the  unqualified  sense  in  which  his  expressions  have 
been  understood  by  others,  and  which,  indeed,  according  to 
all  the  common  laws  of  interpretation,  they  seem  to  bear. 
What  then  did  he  mean  ?  I  apprehend,  that  in  the  clear 
perception,  not  unaccompanied  with  disgust  or  contempt, 
to  the  gaudy  affectations  of  a  style  which  passed  too  cur- 
rent with  too  many  for  poetic  diction,  (though,  in  truth,  it 
had  as  little  pretensions  to  poetry  as  to  logic  or  common 
sense,)  he  narrowed  his  view  for  the  time  ;  and  feel- 
ing a  justifiable  preference  for  the   language   of  nature 

*  I  had  in  my  mind  the  striking  but  untranslatable  epithet,  which  the 
celebrated  Mendelssohn  applied  to  the  great  founder  of  the  Critical  Phy- 
losophy  ^^  Der  allessermalmetide.KAisiTj^''  i.e.  the  all-becrushing,  or  ra- 
ther the  all-to-nothing- crushing  Kant.  In  the  facility  and  force  of  com^ 
pound  epithets,  the  German,  from  the  number  of  its  cases  and  inflections, 
approaches  to  the  Greek  :  that  language  so 

**  Bless'd  in  the  happy  marriage  of  sweet  words." 

It  is  in  the  woful  harshness  of  its  sounds  alone  that  the  German  need 
shrink  from  the  comparison. 


63 

aiitl  of  good  sense,  even  in  its  humblest  and  least  ornameiil^ 
ed  forms,  he  suffered  himself  to  express,  in  terms  at  once 
too  large  and  too  exclusive,  his  predilection  for  a  style 
the  most  remote  possible  from  the  false  and  showy  splen- 
dor which  he  wished  to  explode.  It  is  possible,  that 
this  predilection,  at  first  merely  comparative,  deviated 
fora'tima  into  direct  partiahty.  But  the  real  object 
which  he  had  in  view  was,  I  doubt  not,  a  species  of  ex- 
cellence which  had  been  long  before  most  happily  cha- 
racterized by  the  judicious  and  amiable  Garve,  whose 
works  are  so  justly  beloved  and  esteemed  by  the  Ger- 
mans, in  his  remarks  on  Gellert,  (see  Sammlung  Eini- 
ger  Abhandtunged  von  Christian  Garve)  from  which  the 
following  is  hterally  translated,  *'  The  talent  that  is 
required  in  order  to  make  excellent  verses,  is  perhaps- 
greater  than  the  philosopher  is  ready  to  admit,  or  would 
find  it  in  his  power  to  acquire  :  the  talent  to  seek  only 
the  apt  expression  of  the  thought,  and  yet  to  find  at  the 
same  time  with  it  the  rhyme  and  the  metre.  Gellert  pos- 
sessed this  happy  gift,  if  ever  any  one  of  our  poets  possess- 
ed it  ;  and  nothing  perhaps  contributed  more  to  the  great 
and  universal  impression  which  his  fables  made  on  their 
tirst  publication,  or  conduces  more  to  their  conUi:ried 
popularity.  It  was  a  strange  and  curious  phenomenon, 
and  such  as,  in  Germany,  had  been  previousl}^  unheard  off 
to  read  verses  in  which  every  thing  was  expressed,  just 
as  one  would  wish  to  talk,  and  yet  all  dignified,  attrac- 
tive, and  interesting  ;  and  all  at  the  same  time  perfectly 
correct  as  to  the  measure  of  the  syllables  and  the  rhyme. 
It  is  certain  that  poetry,  when  it  has  attained  this  excel- 
lence, makes  a  fir  greater  impression  than  prose.  So 
much  so,  indeed,  that  even  the  gratification  which  the 
very  rhymes  afford,  becomes  then  no  longer  a  contempt- 
ible or  trifling  gratification." 

However  novel  this  phenomenon  may  have  been  in 
Germany  at  the  time  of  Gellert,  it  is  by  no  means  new, 
nor  yet  of  recent  existence  in  our  language.  Spite  of  the 
licentiousness  with  which  Spencer  occasionally  compels 
the  orthography  of  his  words  into  a  subservience  to  his 
rhymes,  the  whole  Fairy  Queen  is  an  almost  continued  in- 
stance of  this  beauty.  Waller's  song;  "  Go,  lovely  Rose, 
&c."  is  doubtless  familiar  to  most  of  my  readers  ;  but  if  I 
had  happened  to  have  had  by  me  the  Poems  of  Cotton, 


64 

more,  but  far  less  deservedly,  celebrated  as  the  author  of 
the  Virgil  travestied,  I  should  have  indulged  myself,  and, 
i  think,  have  gratified  many  who  are  not  acquainted 
with  his  serious  works,  by  selecting  some  admirable  spe- 
cimens of  this  style.  There  are  not  a  few  poems  in  that^ 
volume,  replete  with  every  excellence  of  thought,  im* 
age,  and  passion,  which  we  expect  or  desire  io  the  po- j 
etry  of  the  milder  muse  ;  and  yet  so  worded,  that  the 
reader  sees  no  one  reason  either  in  the  selection  or  the 
order  of  the  words,  why  he  might  not  have  said  the  very 
same  in  an  appropriate  conversation,  and  cannot  conceive 
how  indeed  he  could  have  expressed  such  thoughts 
otherwise,  without  loss  or  injury  to  his  meaning. 

But,  in  truth,  our  language  is,  and^  from  the  first  dawn 
of  poetrjs  ever  has  been,  particularly  rich  in  composi- 
tions distinguished  by  thij:  excellence.  The  final  e,  which 
is  now  mute,  in  Chaucer's  age  was  either  sounded  or  dropt 
indifferently.  We  ourselves  still  use  either  beloved  or  be^ 
lov\J,  according  as  the  rhyme,  or  measure,  or  the  purpose 
of  more  or  less  solemnity  may  require.  Let  the  reader, 
then,  only  adopt  the  pronunciation  of  the  poet,  and  of 
the  court  at  which  he  lived,  both  with  respect  to  the  final 
e  and  to  the  accentuation  of  the  last  syllable,  I  would 
then  venture  to  ask  what,  even  in  the  colloquial  language 
of  elegant  and  unaffected  women,  (who  are  the  peculiar 
mistresses  of  '*  pure  English,  and  undefiled,")  what  could 
we  hear  more  natural,  or  seemingly  more  unstudied,  than 
the  following  stanzas  from  Chaucer's  Troilus  and  Cre- 
geide. 

'*  And  after  this  forth  to  the  gate  he  went, 
Ther  as  Creseide  out  rode  a  full  gode  paas : 
And  up  and  doun  there  made  he  many  a  wente^ 
And  to  hiraselfe  full  oft  he  said,  Alas ! 
Fro  hennis  rode  my  bhsse  and  my  solas  : 
As  wouldd  blisful  God  now  for  bis  joie, 
I  might  her  sene  agen  come  in  to  Troie  J 
And  to  the  yonder  hill  I  gan  her  guide, 
Alas  !  and  there  I  took  of  her  my  leave  : 
And  yond  I  saw  her  to  her  fathir  ride  ; 
For  sorrow  of  which  mine  hearte  shall  to-cleve  ; 
And  hithir  home  I  came  when  it  was  eve ; 
And  here  I  dwel;  out-cast  from  alle  joie, 
And  shall,  til  I  maie  sene  her  efte  in  Troie. 


65 

And  of  himse^fe  imag"inid  he  ofte 

Tx)  ben  defaitid,  pale  and  waxen  lesse 

Than  he  was  wonte,  and  that  men  saidin  softe, 

What  may  it  be?  who  can  the  sothe  guess, 

Why  Troilus  hath  al  this  heviness  ? 

And  al  this  n'  as  but  his  melancholia, 

That  he  had  of  hiraselfe  suche  fantasie. 

Another  time  imaginin  he  would 

That  every  wight,  that  past  him  by  the  wey 

Had  of  him  routhe,  and  that  they  saien  should, 

lam  rig-ht  sorry,  Troilus  will  die  ! 

And  thus  he  drove  a  dale  yet  forth  or  twey, 

As  ye  have  herde :  suche  life  gan  he  to  lede 

As  he  that  stode  betwixin  hope  and  drede : 

For  which  him  likid  in  his  songis  shewe 
Th'  eucbeson  of  his  wo  as  he  best  might, 
And  made  a  songe  of  wordis  but  a  fewe, 
Somwhat  his  woefull  herte  for  to  light, 
And  when  he  was  from  every  mann'is  sight 
With  softe  voice  he  of  his  lady  dere. 
That  absent  was,  gan  sing  as  ye  may  hear : 

This  song  when  he  thus  songin  had,  full  soott 
He  fell  agen  into  his  sighis  olde  : 
And  every  night,  as  was  his  wonte  to  done, 
He  stode  the  bright  moone  to  beholde 
And  all  his  sorrowe  to  the  moone  he  tolde. 
And  said  :  I  wis,  when  thou  art  hornid  newe, 
I  shall  be  giad,  if  al  the  world  be  trewe !" 

Another  exquisite  master  of  this  species  of  style,  where 
fhe  scholar  and  the  poet  supplies  the  material,  but  the 
perfect  well-bred  gentleman  the  expressions  and  the  ar- 
rangement, is  George  Herbert,  As  from  the  nature  of 
the  subject,  and  the  too  frequent  quaintwess  of  the  thoughts, 
his  '*  Temple,  or  Sacred  Poems  and  Private  Ejaculations," 
are  comparatively  but  little  known,  I  shall  extract  two 
poems.  The  first  is  a  sonnet,  equally  admirable  for  the 
weight,  number,  and  expression  of  the  thoughts,  and  for 
the  siiTiple  dignity  of  the  language.  (Unless,  indeed,  a 
fastidious  taste  should  object  to  the  latter  half  of  the  sixth 
line.)  The  second  is  a  poem  of  greater  length,  which  I 
have  chosen  not  only  for  the  present  purpose,  but,  like- 
wise, as  a  striking  example  and  illustration  of  an  asser- 
tion hazarded  in  a  former  page  of  these  sketches  :  namely ,• 
fkat  the  characteristic  fault  of  our  elder  poets  is  the  re- 
6* 


66 

ferse  of  that  which  distinguishes  too  many  of  our  more 
recent  versifiers  ;  the  one  conveying  the  most  fantastic 
thoughts  in  the  most  correct  and  natural  language  ;  the 
other  in  the  most  fantastic  language  conveying  the  most 
trivial  thoughts.  The  latter  is  a  riddle  of  words  ;  the 
former  an  enigma  of  thoughts.  The  one  reminds  me  of 
an  odd  passage  in  Drayton's  Ideas  : 

Sonnet  IX. 

As  other  men,  so  I  myself  do  muse, 
Why  in  this  sort  I  wrest  invention  so; 
And  why  these  giddy  metaphors  I  use, 
Leaving  the  path  the  greater  part  do  go  ? 
I  will  resolve  you :  /  am  lunatic  I 

The  other  recalls  a  still  odder  passage  in  the  *'  Syna- 
gogue ;  or  the  Shadow  of  the  Temple^''  a  connected  se- 
-ries  of  poems  in  imitation  of  Herbert's  "  Temple,"  and 
in  some  editions  annexed  to  it. 

O  how  my  mind 

Is  gravellM ! 

Not  a  thought, 
That  I  can  find, 

But's  ravell'd 
All  to  nought ! 
Short  ends  of  threds, 

And  narrow  shreds 

Of  lists ; 
Knot's  snarled  ruffs, 
Loose  broken  tufts 
Of  twists; 
Are  my  torn  meditations  ragged  clothing, 
Which  wound,  and  woven  shape  a  sute  for  nothing; 
One  while  I  think,  and  then  I  am  in  pain  , 

To  think  how  to  unthink  that  thought  again ! 

Immediately  after  these  burlesque  passages,  I  cannot 
proceed  to  the  extracts  promised,  without  changing  the 
ludicrous  tone  of  feeling  by  the  interposition  of  the  three 
following  stanzas  of  Herbert's  : 


67 


VIRTUE. 

Sweet  day  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright. 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky  : 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to  night, 
For  thou  must  dye  ! 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue  ang-ry  and  brave 
Bids  the  rash  g-azer  wipe  his  eye  : 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 
And  thou  must  dye  l 

Sweet  spring",  full  of  sweet  days  and  rosesi 
A  nest,  where  sweets  compacted  lie  .• 
My  rausick  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 
And  all  must  dye  ! 


THE    BOSOM    SIN  ! 

Ji  Sonnet^  by  George  Herbert. 

Lord,  with  what  care  hast  thou  begirt  us  round  ? 
Parents  first  season  us  ;  then  schoolmasters 
Deliver  us  to  laws ;  they  send  us  bound 
To  rules  of  reason,  holy  mess^ingers. 

Pulpits  and  Sundays,  sorrow  dogging  sin, 
Afflictions  sorted,  anguish  of  all  sizes, 
Fine  nets  and  stratagems  to  catch  us  in, 

Bibles  laid  open,  millions  of  surprises ; 

Blessings  before  hand,  ties  of  gratefulness, 
The  sound  of  glory  ringing  in  our  ears : 
Without,  our  shame ;  within,  our  consciences  ; 

Angels  and  grace,  eternal  hopes  and  fears  ! 
Yet  all  these  fences,  and  their  whole  array, 
One  cunning  bosom- sin  blows  quite  away. 

LOVE  unknown. 

Dear  friend,  sit  down,  the  tale  is  long  and  sad  : 

And  in  my  faintings,  I  presume,  your  love 

Will  more  comply  than  help.     A  Lord  I  had, 

And  have  of  whom  some  grounds,  which  may  improve, 

I  hold  for  two  lives,  and  both  lives  in  me.^ 

To  him  I  brought  a  dish  of  fruit  one  day 

And  in  the  middle  placed  my  beabt.    But  he 

(I  sigh  to  say> 


68 


Lookt  on  a  servant  who  did  know  bis  eye, 
Belter  than  you  knew  me,  or  (which  is  one) 
Than  I  myself.     The  servant  instantly, 
Quitting  the  fruit,  seiz/d  on  my  heart  alone, 
And  threw  it  in  a  font,  wherein  did  fall 
A  stream  of  bl/)od,  which  issued  from  the  side 
Of  a  g-reat  rock :  I  well  remember  all, 
And  have  g-ood  cause  :  there  it  was  dipt  and  dy'd, 
And  washt,  and  wrun^!  the  very  wringing"  yet 
Enforceth  tears.      Your  heart  wasfoul^  I  fear* 
Indeed  'tis  true.     T  did  and  do  commit 
Many  a  fault,  more  than  my  lease  v/ill  bear ; 
Yet  still  ask'd  pardon,  and  was  not  deny'd. 
But  you  shall  hear.     After  my  heart  was  well, 
And  clean  and  fair,  as  I  one  eventide, 

(I  sigh  to  tell,) 
Walkt  by  myself  abroad,  I  saw  a  larg-e 
And  spacious  furnace  flaming,  and  thereon 
A  boiling  caldron,  round  about  whose  verge 
Was  in  great  letters  set  AFFLICTION. 
The  greatness  show'd  the  owner.     So  I  went 
To  fetch  a  sacrifice  out  of  my  fold. 
Thinking  with  that,  which  I  did  thus  present, 
To  warm  his  love,  which,  I  did  fear,  grew  cold. 
But  as  m}^  heart  did  tender  it,  the  man 
Who  was  to  take  it  from  me,  slipt  his  hand. 
And  threw  my  heart  into  the  scalding*  pan  ; 
My  heart  that  brought  it  Cdo  you  understand  ?) 
The  offever'^s  heart-      Your  heart  was  hard,  I  fear* 
Indeed  'tis  true.     I  found  a  callous  matter 
Began  to  spread  and  to  expatiate  there: 
But  v/ith  a  richer  drug  than  scalding"  water 
I  bath'd  it  often,  e'en  with  holy  blood, 
Which  at  a  board,  while  many  drank  bare  wine. 
A  friend  did  steal  into  my  cup  for  g"ood, 
E'en  taken  inwardly,  and  most  divine 
To  supple  hardnesses.     But  at  the  length 
Out  of  the  caldron  getting,  soon  i  fled 
Unto  my  house,  where  to  repair  the  strecg-tli 
Which  I  had  lost,  I  hasted  to  n\y  bed  ; 
But  when  I  thought  to  sleep  out  all  these  faults, 

(I  siL^h  to  speak,) 
I  found  that  some  had  stufTd  the  bed  with  thoughts, 
I  would  say  thorns.     Dear,  could  my  hc?art  not  break. 
When  with  my  pleasures  even  my  rest  v^  as  gone  ? 
Full  well  I  understood  who  had  been  there : 
For  I  had  given  the  key  to  none  but  one  ; 
It  must  be  he.     Your  heart  v;as  dulL  J  f:<:n\ 


69 

Indeed  a  slack  and  sleepy  state  of  mind 
Did  oft  possess  me  ;  so  that  when  I  pray'd, 
Thoug-h  my  lips  went,  my  heart  did  stay  behind. 
But  all  my  scores  were  by  another  paid, 
Who  took  my  guilt  upon  him.      Truly  ^friend; 
For  oiig'ht  I  hear^  your  master  shows  to  you 
jVTore  favour  than  you  wot  of,     Mark  the  end .' 
The  font  did  only  to  hat  was  old  renew  ; 
The  caldron  suppled  what  was  grovm  too  hard  ^ 
The  thorns  did  quicken  what  was  grown  too  dulli 
All  did  but  strive  to  mend  what  you  had  marr'^d. 
Wherefore  he  cheer'd,  and  praise  him  to  the  full 
Each  day^  each  hour,  each  moment  of  the  weck^ 
Who  fain  would  have  you  be  newy  tender,  quicfe  ( 


70 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Tlie  former  subject  continued — The  neutral  style,  or  that 
common  to  I'rose  and  Poetry,  exemplified  by  specimen!^ 
from  Chaucer,  Herbert^  4'C. 

I  have  no  fear  in  declaring  my  conviction,  that,  the  ex- 
cellence defined  and  exemplified  in  the  preceding  Chap- 
ter is  not  the  characteristic  excellence  of  Mr.  Words- 
worth's style  ;  because  I  can  add  with  equal  sincerity, 
that  it  is  precluded  by  higher  powers.  The  praise  of 
uniform  adherence  to  genuine,  logical  English,  is  un- 
doubtedly his  ;  nay,  laying  the  main  emphasis  on  the  word 
uniform,  I  will  dare  add,  that  of  all  contemporary  poets, 
it  is  his  alone.  For  in  a  less  absolute  sense  of  the  word, 
I  should  certainly  include  Mr,  Bowles,  Lord  Bvron, 
and,  as  to  all  his  later  writings,  Mr.  Southey,  the  ex- 
ceptions in  their  works  being  so  (^\w  and  unimportant. 
But  of  the  specific  excellence  described  in  the  quotation 
from  Garfe,  I  appear  to  find  more,  and  more  undoubted 
specimens  in  the  work  of  others  ;  for  instance,  among 
the  minor  poems  of  Mr.  Thomas  Moore,  and  of  our  illus- 
trious Laureate.  To  me  it  will  always  remain  a  singu- 
lar and  noticeable  fact,  that  a  theory  which  would  es- 
tablish this  lingua  communis,  not  only  as  the  best,  but  as 
the  only  commendable  style,  should  have  proceeded  from 
a  poet  whose  diction,  next  to  that  of  Shakspeare  and 
Milton,  appears  to  me  of  all  others  the  most  individual' 
ized  and  characteristic.  And  let  it  be  remembered,  too, 
that  I  am  now  interpreting  the  controverted  passages  of 
Mr.  W.'s  critical  preface  hy  the  purpose  and  object  which 
he  may  be  supposed  to  have  intended,  rather  than  by 
the  sense  which  the  words  themselves  must  convey,  if 
they  are  taken  without  this  allowance. 

A  person  of  any  taste,  who  had  but  studied  three  or 
four  of  Shakspeare's  principal  plays,  would,  without  the 
name  affixed,  scarcely  fail  to  recognize  as  Shakspeare's, 
a  quotation  from  any  other  play,  though  but  of  a  few 
lines.     A  similar  peculiarity,  though  in  a  less  degree. 


71 

attends  Mr.  Wordsworth's  style,  whenever  he  speaks  in 
his  own  person  ;  or  whenever,  though  under  a  feigned 
nanie,  it  is  clear  that  he  himself  is  .still  speaking,  as  in 
the  different  drainatis  personae  of  the  '*  Recllse  '  Even 
in  the  other  poems  in  which  he  purposes  to  be  most  dra- 
mptic  there  are  few  in  which  it  does  not  occasionally 
burst  forth.  The  reader  might  often  address  the  poet  in 
his  own  words  with  reference  to  the  persons  introduced  : 

*'  It  seems,  as  T  retrace  the  ballad  line  by  line 

That  but  halt  of  it  is  their's,  and  the  better  half  is  thine." 

Who,  having  been  previously  acquainted  with  any 
considerable  portion  of  Mr.  Wordsworth  s  publications, 
and  having  studied  them  with  a  full  feeling  of  the  author's 
genius,  would  not  at  once  claim  as  Wordsworthian  the 
little  poem  on  the  rainbow  ? 

*'  The  child  is  father  of  the  man,  i&c." 

Or  in  the  "  Lucy  Gray  ? 

*'  No  mate,  no  comrade  Lucy  knew ; 
She  dwelt  on  a  wide  moor ; 
T'/ie  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 
Beside  a  human  door.^'' 

Or  in  the  "  Idle  Shepherd-boys  V 

**  Along  the  river's  stony  marg-e 
The  sand-lark  chaunts  a  joyous  song ; 
The  thrush  is  busy  in  the  wood, 
And  carols  loud  and  strong. 
A  thousand  lambs  are  en  the  rock 
All  newly  born  !  both  earth  and  sky 
Keep  jubilee,  and  more  than  all. 
Those  boys  with  their  green  coronal, 

They  never  hear  the  cry,  ^ 

That  plaintive  cry  which  up  the  hill 
Comes  from  the  depth  of  Dungeon  Gill.'* 

Need  I  mention  the  exquisite  description  of  the  Sea 
Lock  in  the  *'  Blind  Highland  Boy."  ^  Who  but  a  poet 
tells  a  tale  in  such  language  to  the  little  ones  by  the  fire- 
side as — 


72 

•**  Yet  bad  he  many  a  restless  dream 
Both  when  he  heard  the  eagle's  scream. 
And  when  he  heard  the  torrents  roar. 
And  heard  the  water  beat  the  shore 

Near  where  their  cottage  stood. 

Beside  a  lake  their  cottage  stood, 
Not  small  like  our*s  a  peaceful  flood  ? 
But  one  of  mighty  size,  and  strange 
That  rough  or  smooth  is  full  or  change 
And  stirring  in  its  bed. 

For  to  this  lake  by  night  and  day, 
The  great  sea- water  finds  its  way 
Through  long,  long  windings  of  the  hills, 
And  drinks  up  all  the  pretty  rills ; 

And  rivers  large  and  strong : 

Then  hurries  back  the  road  it  came— 
Returns  on  errand  still  the  same ; 
This  did  it  when  the  earth  was  new  j 
-And  this  for  evermore  will  do, 

As  long  as  earth  shall  last. 

And  with  the  coming  of  the  tide, 
Come  boats  and  ships  that  sweetly  ride, 
Between  the  woods  and  lofty  rocks ; 
And  to  the  shepherd  with  their  flocks 
Bring  tales  of  distant  lands.'* 

I  might  quote  almost  the  w^hole  of  his  **  Ruth,''  but 
take  the  following  stanzas  : 

•*  But  as  you  have  before  been  told, 
This  stripling,  sportive  gay  and  bold, 
And  with  his  dancing  crest, 
So  beautiful,  through  savage  lands 
Had  roam'd  about  with  vagrant  bands 
Of  Indians  in  the  West. 


The  wind,  the  tempest  roaring  higfci, 
The  tumult  of  a  tropic  sky. 
Might  well  be  dangerous  food 
For  him,  a  youth  to  whom  was  given 
So  much  of  earth,  so  much  of  heaven^ 
And  such  impetuous  blood. 


73 

Whatever  in  those  climes  he  found 
Irregular  ia  sight  or  sound, 
Did  to  his  mind  impart 
A  kindred  impulse  ;  seemM  allied 
To  his  own  powers,  and  justified 

The  workings  of  his  heart. 

Nor  less  to  feed  voluptuous  thought 
The  beauteous  forms  of  nature  wrought, 
Fair  trees  and  lovely  flowers  ; 
The  breezes  their  own  languor  lent, 
The  stars  had  feelings,  which  they  sent 
Into  those  magic  bowers. 

Yet  in  his  worst  pursuits,  I  ween. 
That  sometimes  there  did  intervene 
Pure  hopes  of  high  intent . 
For  passions,  link'd  to  forms  so  fair 
And  stately,  needs  must  have  their  share 
Of  noble  sentiment." 

But  from  Mr.  Wordsworth's  more  elevated  composi- 
tions, irhich  already  form  three-fourths  of  his  works; 
an<l  will,  I  trust,  constitute  hereafter  a  still  larger  pro- 
portion ; — from  these,  whether  in  rhyme  or  blank  verse, 
it  would  be  difficult,  and  almost  superfluous,  to  select  in- 
stances of  a  diction  peculiarly  his  own;  of  a  style  which 
cannot  be  imitated  wjthout  its  being  at  once  recognized, 
as  originatmg  in  Mr.  Wordsworth.  It  would  not  be  easy 
to  open  on  any  one  of  his  loftier  strains,  that  does  not 
contain  examples  of  this ;  and  more  in  proportion  as  the 
lines  are  more  excellent,  and  most  like  the  author.  For 
those  who  may  happen  to  have  been  less  familiar  with 
his  writings,  1  will  give  three  specimens  takeavvith  little 
choice  The  first  from  the  lines  on  the  **  Boy  of  Wijt- 
ander-Mlre/' — who 

*'  Blew  mimic  hootings  to  the  silent  owls, 

That  they  might  answer  him.     And  they  would  shout, 

Across  the  watery  vale  and  shout  again 

With  long  hailoos,  and  screams,  and  echoes  loud 

Bedoubled  and  redoubled,  concourse  wild 

Of  mirth  and  jocund  din.     And  when  it  chanced, 

That  pauses  of  deep  silence  mock'd  hh  skill, 

Trien  sometimes  in  that  silence^  while  he  hun^ 

LisUning,  a  gentk  shock  of  mild  surfirise 

\0L.    11.  7 


74 

Has  carried  far  into  his  heart  the  voice 

Of  mountain  torrents  ;  or  the  visible  scene* 

W  ruld  enter  unawares  into  his  mind 

With  all  its  solemn  imagery^  its  rocks ^ 

lis  woods^  and  that  uncertain  heaven^  received  1 

Into  the  bosom  of  the  steady  lake  J'* 

The  second  shall  be  that  noble  imitation  of  Draytont 
{if  it  was  not  rather  a  coincidence)  in  the  *'  Joanna." 

**  When  I  had  gazed  perhaps  two  minutes'  space, 
Joanna,  looking  in  my  eyes,  beheld 

*  Mr.  Wordworth's  having:  judiciously  adopted  "  concourst  nild'^  in 
this  passag^e  for  "  o  rvild  srenef''  as  it  stood  in  tne  former  edition,  encou- 
rages ixie  to  h  izard  a  remark,  which  I  certainly  should  not  have  made  in 
the  works  of  a  poet  less  austerely  accurate  in  the  use  of  words  than  he 
is,  to  his  own  great  honour.  It  respects  the  propriety  of  the  word 
**  scene^''  even  in  the  sentence  in  which  it  is  retained.  Dryden,  and  he 
only  in  his  more  careless  verses,  was  the  first,  as  far  as  my  researches 
have  discovered,  who  for  the  convenience  of  rhyme  used  this  word  in  the 
vague  sense  which  has  been  since  too  current  even  in  our  best  writers, 
and  which  (unfortunately,  I  think,)  is  given  as  its  first  explanation  in  Dr. 
Johnson's  Dictionary,  and  therefore  would  be  taken  by  an  incautious 
reader  as  its  proper  sense.  In  Shakspeare  and  Milton  the  word  is  never 
used  without  some  clear  reference,  proper  or  metaphorical,  to  the  theatre. 
Thus  Milton ; 

•*  Cedar  and  pine,  and  fir,  and  branchin^^  palm, 
A  Sylvan  scene;  and  as  the  ranks  ascend 
Shacle  above  shade,  a  woody  theatre 
Of  stateliest  view." 

I  object  to  any  extension  of  its  meaning,  becanse  the  word  is  alreadj 
more  equivcKal  than  might  be  wished;  inasmuch  as  in  the  limited  use 
which  I  recommend,  it  may  still  signify  two  different  things;  namely,  the 
scenery,  and  the  characters  and  actions  presented  on  the  stage  during  the 
presence  of  particular  scenes.  It  can  therefore  be  preserved  from  obscu- 
rity only  by  keeping  the  original  signification  full  in  the  mind.  Thus 
Miltou  a^tiin, 

**  Prepare  thou  for  another  scene." 

f  AMiich  Copland  scarce  had  spoke,  but  quickly  everj-  hill 
Upon  her  verge  that  stands,  tne  neighbouring  valleys  fill  : 
HELviLLONfrom  his  height,  it  through  the  mountains  threw. 
From  whom  as  soon  again,  the  sound  Dlnbai.rase  drew. 
From  whose  stone-trophied  head,  it  on  the  Wkndkoss  went, 
"IVhich,  tow'rds  the  sea  again,  rejouudod  it  to  Dent  : 
That  BiiOAUWATER,  therewith  within  her  banks  astound, 
In  s  liling  to  the  sea  told  it  to  Egrkmouno, 

Whose  buildin;AS,  walks,  and  streets,  with  echoes  loud  and  long, 
Pi4  mightily  coiuiuend  old  Copland  for  her  song  I 

Drayton's  Poltolbiok  :  Song  XXXt 


75 

That  ravishment  of  mine,  and  laugh'd  aloud. 
The  rock,  like  something  starting  from  a  sleep, 
Took  up  the  lady's  voice,  and  laugh'd  again ! 
That  ancient  woman  seated  on  Helm-crag 
Was  ready  with  her  cavern  !  Hammar-scar, 
And  the  tall  steep  of  Silver-How  sent  forth 
A  noise  of  laughter :  southern  Loughrigg  heard, 
And  Fairfield  answered  with  a  mountain  tone, 
Helvelltn  far  into  the  clear  blae  sky 
Carried  the  lady's  voice! — old  Skiddaw  blew 
His  speaking  trumpet ! — back  out  of  the  clouds 
From  Glaramara  southward  came  the  voice  : 
And  KiRKSTONE  tossed  it  from  his  misty  head  !" 

The  third,  which  is  in  rhyme,  I  take  from  the  "  Song 
at  the  feast  of  Brougham  Castle,  upon  the  restoration  of 
Lord  Clifford, the  shepherd,  to  the  estates  of  hisancestors*'* 

*'  Now  another  day  is  come 

Fitter  hope,  and  nobler  doom: 

He  hath  thrown  aside  his  crook. 

And  hath  buried  deep  his  book ;   ; 

Armour  rusting  in  the  hails 

On  the  blood  ff  Clifford  calls; 

Quell  the  Scot^  exclaims  the  lance  / 

Bear  me  to  the  heart  of  France 

Is  the  longing  of 'the  shield — 

Tell  thy  name,  thou  trembling  field  * 

Field  of  deaths  where'* er  thou  bey 

Groan  thou  with  our  victory  ! 

Happy  day,  and  mighty  hour, 

When  our  shepherd,  in  his  power. 

Mailed  and  horsed  with  lance  and  aword, 

To  his  ancestors  restored. 

Like  a  re-appearing  star, 

Like  a  glory  from  afar. 

First  shall  head  the  flock  of  war  /" 

Alas  !  the  fervent  harper  did  not  know, 
That  for  a  tranquil  soi^l  the  lay  was  framed. 
Who,  long  c  impelled  in  humble  walks  to  go, 
Was  softened  into  feeling,  soothed,  and  tamed. 
Love  had  he  found  in  huts  where  poor  men  lie  : 
His  daily  teachers  had  been  woods  and  rills, 
The  silence  that  is  in  the  starry  sky^ 
The  sleep  that  is  among  the  lonely  hills,^^ 

The  words  themselves  in  the  fore2:oing  extracts  are,  no 
doubt,  sufficiently  common  for  the  greater  part.     (But  in 


76 

what  poem  are  they  not  so  ?  if  we  except  a  few  misad* 
venturous  attempts  to  translate  the  arts  and  sciences  into 
verse  ?)  In  the  **  Excursion"  the  number  of  polysyllabic 
(or  what  the  common  people  call,  dictionary)  words  is 
more  than  usually  great.  And  so  must  it  needs  be,  in 
proportion  to  the  number  and  variety  of  an  author's  con- 
ceptions, and  his  solicitude  to  express  them  with  preci- 
sion.) But  are  those  words  in  those  places  commonly  em- 
ployed in  real  life  to  express  the  same  thought  or  out- 
ward thing  ?  Are  they  the  style  used  in  the  ordinary  in- 
tercourse of  spoken  words  ?  No  !  nor  are  ihe  modes  of 
connexions  ;  and  still  less  the  breaks  and  transitions. 
Would  any  but  a  poet — at  least,  could  any  one  without 
being  conscious  that  he  had  expressed  himself  with  no- 
ticeable vivacity — have  described  a  bird  singing  loud  by, 
"  The  thrush  is  busy  in  the  wood  ?"  Or  have  spoken  of 
boys  with  a  string  of  club-moss  round  Ihcir  rusly  hats,  as 
the  boys  *'  i^ith  their  green  coronal  ?^''  Or  have  translated 
a  beautiful  May-day  into  "  Both  earth  ayid  sky  keep  ju- 
bilee?'^ Or  have  brought  all  the  different  marks  and  cir- 
cumstances of  a  sea-loch  before  the  mind,  as  the  actions 
of  a  living  and  acting  power?  Or  have  represented  the 
reflection  of  the  sky  in  the  water,  as  "  That  uncertain 
heaven  received  into  the  bosom  of  the  steady  lake  .^"  Even 
the  grammatical  construction  is  not  unfrequently  pecu- 
liar ;  as  '*  The  wind,  the  tempest  roaring  high,  the  tu- 
mult of  a  tropic  sky,  might  well  be  dangerous  food  to 
him.  a  youth  to  whom  was  given,  olc."  There  is  a  pe- 
culiarity in  the  frequent  use  of  the  do-uvajTuTov  (i.  e.  the 
omission  of  the  connective  particle  before  the  last  of  se- 
veral words,  or  several  sentences  used  grammatically  as 
single  words,  all  being  in  the  same  case,  and  governing  or 
governed  by  the  same  verb)  and  not  less  in  the  construc- 
tion of  words  by  apposition  [to  him  a  youth.)  In  short, 
%vere  there  excluded  from  Mr.  Wordsworth's  poetic  com- 
positions all  that  a  literal  adherence  to  the  theory  of  his 
preface  zvoidd  exclude,  two- thirds  at  least  of  the  marked 
beauties  of  his  poetry  must  be  erased.  For  a  far  grcciter 
number  of  lines  would  be  sacrificed,  than  in  any  other 
recent  poet  ;  because  the  pleasure  received  from  Words- 
worth's poems  being  less  derived  either  from  excitement 
of  curiosity,  or  the  rapid  flow  of  narration,  the  striking 
passages  form  a  larger  proportion  of  their   value.     I  do 


77 

not  adduce  it  as  a  fair  criterion  of  comparative  excel- 
lence, nor  do  I  even  think  it  such  ;  but  merely  as  matter 
of  fact  [  affirm,  that  from  no  contemporary  writer  could 
so  many  lines  be  quoted,  without  reference  to  the  poem 
in  which  they  are  found,  for  their  own  independent 
weight  or  beauty.  From  the  sphere  of  my  own  experi- 
ence I  can  bring  to  my  recollection  three  persons  of  no 
every-day  powers  and  acquirejnents,  who  had  read  the 
poems  of  others  with  more  and  more  unallayed  pleasure, 
and  had  thought  more  highly  of  their  authors,  as  poets  ; 
who  yet  have  confessed  to  me,  that  from  no  modern  work 
had  so  many  passages  started  up  anew  in  their  minds  at 
different  times,  and  as  different  occasions  had  awakened 
a  meditative  mood. 


"ffit 


78 


CHAPTER  XXL 

Remarks  on  the  present  mode  of  conducihig  enticed  journals. 

Long  have  I  wished  to  see  a  fair  and  philosophical  in- 
quisition into  the  character  of  Wordsworth,  as  a  poet,  on 
the  evidence  of  his  published  works  ;  and  a  positive,  not 
a  comparative,  appreciation  of  their  characteristic  excel- 
lencies, deficiencies,  and  defects.  I  know  no  claim,  that 
the  mere  opinion  of  any  individual  can  have  io  weigh 
down  the  opinion  of  the  author  himself;  against  the  pro- 
bability of  whose  parental  partiality  we  ought  to  set  that 
of  his  having  thought  longer  and  more  deeply  on  the 
subject.  But  I  should  call  that  investigation  fair  and 
philosophical,  in  which  the  critic  announces  and  endea- 
vors to  establish  the  principles,  which  he  holds  for  the 
foundation  of  poetry  in  general,  with  the  specification  of 
these  in  their  application  to  the  different  classes  of  poet- 
ry. Having  thus  prepared  his  canons  of  criticism  for 
praise  and  condemnation,  he  would  proceed  to  particu- 
larize the  most  striking  passages  to  which  he  deems  them 
applicable,  faithfully  noticing  the  frequent  or  infrequent 
recurrence  of  similar  merits  or  defects,  and  as  faithfully 
distinguishing  what  is  characteristic  from  what  is  acci* 
dental,  or  a  mere  flagging  of  the  wing.  Then,  if  his 
premises  be  rational,  his  deductions  legitimate,  and  his 
conclusions  justly  applied,  the  reader,  and  possibly  the 
poet  himself,  may  adopt  his  judgment  in  the  light  of 
judgment,  and  in  the  independence  of  free  agency.  If 
he  has  erred,  he  presents  his  errors  in  a  definite  place 
and  tangible  form,  and  holds  the  torch  and  guides  the 
way  to  their  detection. 

1  most  willingly  admit,  and  estimate  at  a  high  value, 
the  services  which  the  Edinburgh  Review,  and  others 
formed  afterwards  on  the  same  plan,  have  rendered  to 
society  in  the  diflfusion  of  knowledge.  I  think  the  com- 
mencement of  the  Edinburgh  Review  an  important  epoch 
in  periodical  criticism  ;  and  that  it  has  a  claim  upon  the 
gratitude  of  the  literary  republic,  and,  indeed,  of  the 
reading  public  at  large ,  for  having  originated  the  scheme 


79 

of  reviewing  those  books  only  wluch  are  susceptible 
and  deserving  cf  argumentative  criticism.  Not  less  me- 
ritorious, and  far  more  faithfully,  and,  in  general,  far  more 
ably  executed,  is  their  plan  of  supplying  the  vacant  place 
of  the  trash  of  mediocrity,  wisely  left  to  sink  into  obli- 
vion by  their  own  weight,  with  original  essays  on  the 
most  interesting  subjects  of  the  time,  religious,  or  po- 
litical ;  in  which  the  titles  of  the  books  or  pamphlets 
prefixed  furnish  only  the  name  and  occasion  of  the  dis- 
quisition. I  do  not  arraign  the  keenness  or  asperity  of 
its  damnatory  style,  in  and  for  itself,  as  long  as  the  au- 
thor is  addressed  or  treated  as  the  mere  impersonation 
of  the  work  then  under  trial.  I  have  no  quarrel  with 
them  on  this  account,  as  long  as  no  personal  allusions  are 
admitted,  and  no  re-commitment  (for  new  trial)  of  juve- 
nile performances,  that  were  published,  perhaps  forgot- 
ten, many  years  before  the  commencement  of  the  re- 
view :  since  for  the  forcing  back  of  such  works  to  public 
notice  no  motives  are  easily  assignable,  but  such  as  are 
furnished  to  the  critic  by  his  own  personal  malignity  j 
or  what  is  still  worse,  by  a  habit  of  malignity  in  the  form 
of  mere  wantonness. 

**No  private  grudge  they  need,  no  personal  spite  : 
The  vivasectio  is  its  own  delight! 
AUenrrJty,  ail  envy,  tliey  disclaim, 
Disinterested  thieves  of  our  good  name  : 
Cool,  sober  murderers  of  their  neighbour's  fame  !" 

s.  T.  a 

Every  censure,  every  sarcasm  respecting  a  publication 
which  the  critic,  with  the  criticised  work  before  him, 
can  make  good,  is  the  critic's  right.  The  writer  is  au- 
thorized to  reply,  but  not  to  complain.  Neither  can 
any  one  prescribe  to  the  critic,  how  soft  or  how  hard  ; 
how  friendly,  or  how  bitter,  shall  he  the  phrases  which 
he  is  to  select  for  the  expression  of  such  reprehension 
or  ridicule.  The  critic  must  know  what  effect  it  is  his 
object  to  produce  ;  and  with  a  view  to  this  effect  must 
he  weigh  his  words.  But  as  soon  as  the  critic  betrays, 
that  he  knows  more  of  his  author  than  the  author's  pub- 
lications could  have  told  him ;  as  soon  as  from  this  more 
intimate  knowledge,  elsewhere  obtained,  he  avails  him- 
setfof  the  slightest  trait  against  the  author,  his  censure 


80 

instantly  becomes  personal  injury,  his  sarcasms  persona 
insults.  He  ceases  to  be  a  critic,  and  takes  on  him  the 
most  contemptible  character  to  which  a  rational  creature 
can  be  degraded,  that  of  a  gossip,  backbiter,  and  pasquil-j 
lant :  but  with  this  heavy  aggravation,  that  he  steals  the! 
unquiet,  the  deforming  passions  of  the  World  into  the 
Museum  ;  into  the  very  place  which,  next  to  the  chapel  ' 
and  oratory,  should  be  our  sanctuary,  and  secure  place 
of  refuge  ;  offers  abominations  on  the  altar  of  the  muses  ; 
and  makes  its  sacred  paling  the  very  circle  in  which  he 
conjures  up  the  lying  and  prophane  spirit. 

This  determination  of  unlicensed  personality,  and  of 
permitted  and  legitimate  censure  (which  I  owe  in  part 
to  the  illustrious  Lessing,  himself  a  model  of  acute,  spi- 
rited, sometimes  stinging,  but  always  argumentative  and 
honourable,  criticism)  is  beyond  controversy  the  true 
one  :  and  though  I  would  not  myself  exercise  all  the 
rights  of  the  latter,  yet,  let  but  the  former  be  excluded, 
I  submit  myself  to  its  exercise  in  the  hands  of  others, 
without  complaint  and  without  resentment. 

Let  a  communication  be  formed  between  any  number 
of  learned  men  in  the  various  branches  of  science  and 
literature  ;  and  whether  the  president  and  central  com- 
mittee be  in  London,  or  Edinburgh,  if  only  they  previ- 
ously lay  aside  their  individuality,  and  pledge  themselves 
inwardly,  as  well  as  ostensibly,  to  administer  judgment 
according  to  a  constitution  and  code  of  laws  ;  and  if  by 
grounding  this  code  on  the  two-fold  basis  of  universal 
morals  and  philosophic  reason,  independent  of  all  fore- 
seen application  to  particular  works  and  authors,  they 
obtain  the  right  to  speak  each  as  the  representative  of 
their  body  corporate  ;  they  shall  have  honour  and  good 
wishes  from  me,  and  I  shall  accord  to  them  their  fair 
dignities,  though  self-assumed,  not  less  cheerfully  than  if 
I  could  inquire  concerning  them  in  the  herald's  office, 
or  turn  to  them  in  the  book  of  peerage.  However  loud 
may  be  the  outcries  for  prevented  or  subverted  reputa- 
tion, however  numerous  and  impatient  the  complaints  of 
merciless  severity  and  insupportable  despotism,  1  shall 
neither  feel,  nor  utter  aught  but  to  the  defence  and  jus- 
tification of  the  critical  machine.  Should  any  literary 
Quixote  find  himself  provoked  by  its  sounds  and  regular 
movements,  I  should  admonish  him  with  Sancho  Fanz9> 


81 

that  it  is  no  giant  but  a  windmill  ;  there  it  stands  on  it-^ 
own  place,  and  its  own  hillock,  never  goes  out  of  its  way 
to  attack  any  one,  and  to  none  aii('.  from  none  either  gives 
or  a5kt3  assistance.  When  the  public  press  has  poured 
in  any  part  of  its  produce  between  its  n^iill-stones,  it 
grinds  it  off,  one  man's  sack  the  same  as  another,  and 
with  whatever  wind  may  happen  to  be  then  blowing. 
Ail  the  two-and-thirty  winds  are  alike  its  friend.?.  Of 
the  whole  wide  atmosphere  it  does  not  desire  a  single 
finger-breadth  more  than  what  is  necessary  for  its  sails 
to  turn  round  in.  But  this  space  must  be  left  free  and 
unimpeded.  Gnats,  beetles,  wasps,  butterflies,  and  the 
whole  tribe  of  ephemerals  and  insignificants,  may  flit  in 
and  out  and  between  ;  may  hum,  and  buzz,  and  jarr  ; 
may  shrill  their  tiny  pipes,  and  wind  their  p^iny  horns, 
unchastised  and  unnoticed.  But  idlers  and  bravadoes  of 
larger  size  and  prouder  show  must  beware  how  they 
place  themselves  within  its  sweep.  Much  less  may  they 
presume  to  lay  hands  on  the  sails,  the  strength  of  which 
is  neither  greater  nor  less  than  as  the  v/ind  is,  which 
drives  them  round.  Whomsoever  the  remorseless  arm 
slings  aloft,  or  whirls  along  with  it  in  the  air,  he  has  him- 
self alone  to  blame  ;  though  when  the  same  arm  throws 
him  from  it,  it  will  more  often  double  than  break  the 
force  of  his  fall. 

Putting  aside  the  too  manifest  and  too  frequent  inter- 
ference of  NATIONAL  PARTY,  and  evcu  PERSONAL  predi- 
lection or  aversion  ;  and  reserving  for  deeper  feelings 
those  worse  and  m.ore  criminal  intrusions  into  the  sa- 
credness  of  private  life,  which  not  seldom  merit  legal 
rather  than  literary  chastisement,  the  two  principal  ob- 
jects and  occasions  which  1  tind  for  blame  and  regret  in 
the  conduct  of  the  review  in  question  are  :  flrst,  its  un- 
faithfulness to  its  own  announced  and  excellent  plan,  by 
subjecting  to  criticism  works  neither  indecent  or  immo- 
ral, yet  of  such  trifling  importance  even  in  point  of  size 
and  according  to  the  critic's  ov»n  verdict,  so  devoid  of  all 
merit,  as  must  excite  in  the  most  candid  mind  the  suspi- 
cion, either  that  dislike  or  vindictive  feelings  were  at 
work,  or  that  there  was  a  cold  prudential  pre-determi- 
nation  to  increase  the  sale  of  the  ReView  by  flattering 
the  malignant  passions  of  human  nature.  Th;-t  1  may 
not  myself  become  subject  to   the  charge,  which  1  am 


82 

bringing  against  others,  by  an  accusation  without  proof, 
I  refer  to  the  article  on  Dr.  Rennell's  sermon  in  the  very 
first  number  of  the  Ec^inburgh  Review  as  an  illustration 
of  my  meaning.  If  in  looking  through  all  the  succeed- 
ing volumes  the  reader  should  find  this  a  solitary  in- 
stance, 1  must  submit  to  that  painful  forfeiture  of  esteem, 
which  awaits  a  groundless  or  exaggerated  charge. 

The  second  point  of  objection  belongs  to  this  review 
only  in  common  with  all  other  works  of  periodical  criti- 
cism ;  at  least,  it  applies  in  common  to  the  general  sys- 
tem of  all,  whatever  exception  there  may  be  in  favour  of 
particular  articles.     Or  if  it  attaches  to   the    Edinburgh 
Review,  and  to  its  only  corrival,  (the  Quarterly,)  with 
any  peculiar  force  ;  this  results  from  the  superiority  of 
talent,  acquirement,  and  information,  which  both  have  so 
undeniably  displayed  ;  and  which  doubtless  deepens  the 
regret,   though  not  the  blame.     I    am  referring  to  the 
substitution  of  assertion  for  argument  ;  to  the  frequency 
of  arbitrary,  and  sometimes  petulant  verdicts,  not  seldom 
unsupported  even  by  a  single  quotation  from  the  work 
condemned,  which  might  at  least  have  explained  the  cri- 
tic's meaning,  if  it  did  not  prove  the  justice  of  his  sen- 
tence.    Ev^en  where  this  is  not  the  case,  the  extracts  are 
too  often  made,  without  reference  to  any  general  grounds 
or  rules,  from  v/hich  the  faultiness  or  inadmissibility  of 
the  qualities  attributed,  may  be   deduced  ;  and  without 
any  attempt  to  show,  that  the  qualities  are  attributable  to 
the  passage  extracted.     I  have   met  with  such   extracts 
from  Mr.  Wordsworth's  poems,  annexed  to  such  asser- 
tions, as  led  me  to  imagine   that  the    reviewer,   having 
written  his  critique  before  he  had  read   the   work,    had 
then  pricked  with  a  pin  for  passages,  wherewith  to  illus- 
trate the  various  branches  of  his  preconceived  opinions. 
By   what  principle  of  rational  choice  can  we  suppose  a 
critic  to  have  been  directed  (at  least  in  a  christian  coun- 
try,  and  himself,   we   hope,  a  christian)  who  gives  the 
following  lines,  portraying  the  fervour  of  solitary  devo- 
tion excited  by  the  magnificent  display  of  the  Almighty's 
works,  as  a  proof  and  example   of  an  author's  tendency 
to  downright  ravings,  and  absolute  unintelligibility. 

'*  O  then  what  soul  was  his,  'when  on  the  tops 
Of  the  high  mountains  he  beheld  the  sun 


83 

Rise  up,  and  bathe  the  world  in  light  !     He  looked— 

Ocean  and  earth,  the  solid  frame  of  earth, 

And  ocean's  liquid  mass,  beneath  him  lay 

In  gladness  and  deep  joy.     The  clouds  were  touch'd. 

And  in  their  silent  faces  did  he  read 

Unutterable  love  !     Sound  needed  none, 

Nor  any  voice  of  joy  :  his  spirit  drank 

The  spectacle  !  sensation,  soul,  and  form, 

AH  melted  into  him.     They  swallowed  up 

His  animal  bein§  ;   in  them  did  he  live, 

And  by  them  did  he  live  :  they  were  his  life. 

(Excursion.) 

Can  it  be  expected,  that  either  the  author  or  his  ad- 
mirers, should  be  induced  to  pay  any  serious  attention 
to  decisions  which  prove  nothing  but  the  pitiable  state 
of  the  critic's  own  taste  and  sensibihty  ?  On  opening  the 
Review  they  see  a  favorite  passage,  of  the  force  and 
truth  of  which  they  had  an  intuitive  certainty  in  their 
own  inward  experience  confirmed,  if  confirmation  it  could 
receive,  by  the  sympathy  of  their  most  enlightened 
friends  ;  some  of  whom,  perhaps,  even  in  the  world's 
opinion,  hold  a  higher  intellectual  rank  than  the  critic 
himself  would  presume  to  claim.  And  this  very  passage 
they  find  selected  as  the  characteristic  effusion  of  a  mind 
deserted  by  reason ;  as  furnishing  evidence  that  the  wri- 
ter was  raving,  or  he  could  not  have  thus  strung  words 
together  without  sense  or  purpose  !  No  diversity  of 
taste  seems  capable  of  explaining  such  a  contrast  in  judg- 
ment. 

That  I  had  over^rated  the  merit  of  a  passage  or  poem  ; 
that  I  had  erred  concerning  the  degree  of  its  excellence, 
I  might  be  easily  induced  to  believe  or  apprehend.  But 
that  lines,  the  sense  of  which  I  had  analysed  and  found 
consonant  with  all  the  best  convictions  of  my  understand- 
ing ;  and  the  imagery  and  diction  of  which  had  collected 
round  those  convictions  my  noblest,  as  well  as  my  most 
delightful  feelings  ;  that  I  should  admit  such  lines  to  be 
mere  nonsense  or  lunacy,  is  too  much  for  the  most  in- 
genious arguments  to  effect.  But  that  such  a  revolution 
of  taste  should  be  brought  about  by  a^  few  broad  asser- 
tions, seems  httle  less  than  impossible.  On  the  contra- 
ry, it  would  require  an  effort  of  charity  not  to  dismiss  the 


81 

criticism  with  the  aphorism  of  the  wise  man,   in  animaj 
malevolam  sapientia  hj-iid  intrare  potest. 

What,  then,  if  this  very  critic  J?Jiould  have  cited  a  larg 
number  of  single  lin^  ^,  and  even  of  long  paragraphs,  whici 
he  himself  acknowledges  to  possess  eniincnt  and  original 
beauty  ?  What  if  he  himself  has  owiied,  that  beauties 
as  great  are  scattered  in  abi^ndance  tnrougjiout  the  whole 
book?  And  yet,  though  under  this  impression,  should 
have  commenced  his  critique  in  vnlg  cr  exultation,  with 
a  prophecy  meant  to  secure  its  own  fulfilment  ?  With  a 
•*  This  won't  do  !"  What  ?  if  after  such  acknowledg- 
ments, extorted  from  his  own  judgment,  he  should  pro- 
ceed from  charge  to  chare  of  tameness,  and  raving  ;  flights 
and  flatness  ;  and  at  length,  consigning  the  author  to  the 
house  of  incurables,  should  conclude  with  a  strain  of  ru- 
dest contempt,  evidently  grounded  in  the  distempered 
state  of  his  own  moral  associations  ?  Suppose,  too,  all 
this  done  without  a  single  leading  principle  established 
or  even  announced,  and  without  any  one  attempt  at  ar- 
gumentative deduction,  though  the  poet  had  presented  a 
more  than  usual  opportunity  for  it,  by  having  previously 
made  public  his  ov/n  principles  of  judgment  in  poetry,  and 
supported  them  by  a  connected  train  of  reasoning  ! 

The  oflice  and  duty  of  the  poet  is  to  select  the  most 
dignified  as  well  as 

"  The  happiest,  gayest,  attitude  of  things." 

The  reverse,  for  in  all  cases  a  reverse  is  possible,  is  the 
appropriate  business  of  burlesque  and  travesty,  a  pre- 
dominant taste  for  which  has  been  always  deemed  a  mark 
of  a  low  and  degraded  mind.  When  1  was  at  Rome,  a- 
mong  many  other  visits  to  the  tomb  of  Julius  II.,  I  went 
thither  once  with  a  Prussian  artist,  a  man  of  genius  and 
great  vivacity  of  feeling.  As  we  were  gazing  on  Michael 
Angelo's  Moses,  our  conversation  turned  on  the  horns 
and  beard  of  that  stupendous  statue  ;  of  the  necessit}^  of 
each  to  support  the  other  ;  of  the  super-human  effect  of 
the  former,  and  the  necessity  of  the  existence  of  both 
to  give  a  harmony  and  integrity  both  to  the  image  and 
the  feeling  excited  by  it.  Conceive  them  removed,  and 
the  statue  would  become  «/i-natural,  without  being  .^fw^^er- 
?3atural.     We  called  to  mind  the  horns  of  the  rising  sun, 


85 

and  I  repeated  the  noble  passage  from  Taylor's  Holy 
Dying.  That  horns  were  the  emblem  of  power  and 
sovereignty  among  the  Eastern  nations,  anJ  are  still  re- 
tained as  such  in  Abyssinia  ;  the  Achelous  of  the  ancient 
Greeks  ;  and  the  probable  ideas  and  feelings,  that  origi- 
nally suggested  the  mixture  of  the  human  and  the  brute 
form  in  the  figure,  by  which  they  realized  the  idea  of 
their  mysterious  Pan,  as  representing  intelligence  blend- 
ed with  a  darker  power,  deeper,  mightier,  and  more 
universal  than  the  concious  intellect  of  man  ;  than  intel- 
ligence ; — all  these  thoughts  and  recollections  passed  in 
procession  before  our  minds.  My  companion,  who  pos- 
sessed more  than  his  share  of  the  hatred  which  his 
countrymen  bore  to  the  French,  had  just  observed  to  me, 
*•  a  Frenchman^  Sir !  is  the  only  animal  in  the  human  shape, 
that  by  no  possibility  can  lift  itself  up  to  religion  or  poe- 
try r^  When,  lo  !  two  French  officers  of  distinction  and 
rank  entered  the  church !  Mark  you^  whispered  the 
Prussian,  "  the  first  thing  which  those  scoundrels  will 
notice^  {for  they  will  begin  by  instantly  noticing  the  statue 
in  parts  ^  without  one  momenfs  pause  of  admiration  impress- 
ed  by  the  whole,)  wi'J  be  the  horns  and  the  beard.  And 
the  associations,  which  they  will  immediately  connect  with 
them,  will  be  those  of  a  he-goat  and  a  cuckold.''  Never 
did  man  guess  more  luckily.  Had  he  inherited  a  por- 
tion of  the  great  legislator's  prophetic  powers,  whose 
statue  we  had  been  contemplating,  he  could  scarcely 
have  uttered  words  more  coincident  with  the  result  ;  for 
even  as  he  had  said,  so  it  came  to  pass. 

In  the  Excursion,  the  poet  has  introduced  an  old  man, 
born  in  humble,  but  not  abject  circumstances,  who  had 
enjoyed  more  than  usual  advantages  of  education,  both 
from  books  and  from  the  more  awful  discipline  of  nature. 
This  person  he  represents,  as  having  been  driven  by  the 
restlessness  of  ferved  feehngs,  and  from  a  craving  intel- 
lect, to  an  itinerant  life  ;  and  as  having  in  consequence 
passed  the  larger  portion  of  his  time,  from  earliest  man- 
hood, in  villages  and  hamlets  from  door  to  door, 

'*  A  vagrant  merchant  bent  beneath  his  load." 

Now,  whether  this  be  a  character  appropriate  to  a  lofty 
didactic  poem,  is,  perhaps,   questionable.     It  presents  a 
Vol.  II.  8 


86 

lair  subject  for  controversy  ;  and  the  question  is  to  be  de- 
termined by  the  congruity  or  incongruity  of  such  a  cha- 
racter, with  what  shall  be  proved  to  be  the  essential 
constituents  of  poetry.  But  surely  the  critic,  who,  pas- 
sing by  all  the  opportunities  which  such  a  mode  of  life 
would  present  to  such  a  man  ;  ail  the  advantages  of  the 
liberty  of  nature,  of  solitude  and  of  solitary  thought ;  all 
the  varieties  of  places  and  seasons,  through  which  his 
track  had  lain,  with  all  the  varying  imagery  they  bring 
with  them  ;  and,  lastly,  all  the  observations  of  men, 

*<  Their  manners,  their  eDJoyments  and  pursuits, 
Their  passions  and  their  feelings, 

which  the  memory  of  these  yearly  journeys  must  have 
given  and  recalled  to  such  a  mind — the  critic,  I  say,  who 
from  the  multitude  of  possible  associations  should  pass 
by  all  these,  in  order  to  fix  his  attention  exclusively  on 
the  pin  papers,  and  stay-tapes,  which  might  have  been 
among  the  wares  of  his  pack  ;  this  critic^  in  my  opinion, 
cannot  be  thought  to  possess  a  much  higher  or  much 
healther  state  of  moral  feehng,  than  the  Frenchman? 
above  recorded. 


87 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

TIte  characteristic  defects  of  Wordsworth'' s  poetry,  with  the^ 
principles  from  which  the  judgment,  that  they  are  de^ 
fects,  is  deduced — Their  proportion  to  the  beauties — For 
the  greatest  part  characteristic  of  his  theory  only. 

If  Mr.  Wordsworth  have  set  forth  principles  of  poetry 
which  his  arguments  are  insufficient  to  support,  let  him 
and  those  who  have  adopted  his  sentiments  be  set  right 
by  the  confutation  of  those  arguments,  and  by  the  sub- 
stitution of  more  philosophical  principles.  And  still  let 
the  due  credit  be  given  to  the  portion  and  importance  or 
the  truths  which  are  blended  with  his  theory  ;  truths, 
the  too  exclusive  attention  to  which  had  occasioned  its 
errors,  by  tempting  him  to  carry  those  truths  beyond 
their  proper  limits.  If  his  mistaken  theory  have  at  all  in- 
fluenced his  poetic  compositions,  let  the  effects  be  point- 
ed out,  and  the  instances  given.  But  let  it  likewise  be 
shown,  how  far  the  influence  has  acted  :  whether  diffu- 
sively, or  only  b}^  starts  ;  whether  the  number  and  im- 
portance of  the  poems  and  passages  thus  infected  be  great 
or  triding  compared  with  the  sound  portion  ;  and,  lastly, 
whether  they  are  inwoven  into  the  texture  of  his  works, 
or  are  loose  and  separable.  The  result  of  such  .i  trial 
would  evince,  beyond  a  doubt,  what  it  is  high  time  to  aa- 
no'juce  decisively  and  aloud,  that  the  supposed  character- 
istics of  Mr  Wordsworth's  poetry,  whether  admired  or 
reprobated  ;  whether  they  are  simplicity  or  simplenv-^ss  ; 
faithful  adherence  to  essential  nature,  or  wilful  selections 
from  human  nature  of  its  meanest  forms  and  under  the 
least  attractive  associations ;  are  as  little  the  real  charac- 
teristics of  his  poetry  at  large,  as  of  his  genius  and  the 
constitution  of  his  miud. 

In  a  comparatively  small  number  of  poems,  he  chose 
to  try  an  experiment  ;  and  this  experiment  we  will  sup- 
pose to  have  failed.  Yet  even  in  these  poems  it  is  im- 
possible not  to  perceive,  that  the  natliral  tendency  of  the 
poet's  mind  is  to  great  objects  and  elevated  conceptions. 
The  poem  entitled  '*  Fidelity,"  is,  for  the  greater  pj^rt, 


88 

written  in  language  as  unraised  and  naked  as  any  perhaps 
in  the  two  vol  :mes.  Yet  take  the  following  stanza,  and 
compare'  it  with  the  preceding  stanzas  of  the  same 
poem  : 

*'  There  sometimes  does  a  leaping-  fish 
Bend  through  the  tarn  a  lonely  cheer ; 
The  crag-s  repeat  the  Kaven's  croak 
In  symphony  anstere  ; 
Thither  the  rainhoir  comes — the  cloud, 
And  mists  that  spread  the  flying  shroud  ; 
And  sun-beams  :  and  the  sounding  blast, 
That  if  it  could  Would  hurry  past, 
But  that  enormous  barrier  binds  it  fast." 

Or  compare  the  four  last  lines  of  the  concluding  stan- 
za with  the  former  half : 

**  Yet  proof  vvas  plain  that  since  the  day 
On  which  the  traveller  thus  had  died, 
The  dog  had  watch'd  about  the  spot, 
Or  by  his  master's  side  : 
How  nourish' d  there  for  such  long  time 
He  knows  who  gave  that  love  svbfime^ 
And  gave  that  strength  of  feeling  great 
Above  all  human  eHimale, 

Can  any  candid  and  intelligent  mind  hesitate  in  deter- 
mining, which  of  these  best  represents  the  tendency  and 
native  character  of  the  poet's  genius  ;  Will  he  not  de- 
cide that  the  one  was  written  because  the  poet  would  so 
write,  and  the  other  because  he  could  not  so  entirely  re- 
press the  force  and  grandeur  of  his  mind,  but  that  he 
must  in  some  part  or  other  of  every  composition  write 
otherwise  ?  In  short,  that  his  only  disease  is  the  being 
out  of  his  element ;  like  the  swan,  that  having  amused 
himself,  for  a  while,  with  crushing  the  weeds  on  the 
river's  bank,  soon  returns  to  his  own  majestic  move- 
ments on  its  reflecting  and  sustaining  surface.  Let 
it  be  observed,  that  I  am  here  supposing  the  imagined 
judge,  to  whom  I  appeal,  to  have  already  decided  against 
the  poet's  theory,  as  far  as  it  is  different  from  the  prin- 
ciples of  the  art,  generally  acknowledged. 

I  cannot  here  enter  into  a  detailed  examination  of  Mr. 
Wordsworth's  works  ;  but  1  will  attempt   to  give  the 


89 

tnain  results  of  my  own  judgment,  after  an  acquaintance 
of  many  y6ars,  and  repeated  perusals.  And  though,  to 
appreciate  the  defects  of  a  great  mind,  it  is  necessary  to 
understand  previously  its  characteristic  excellences,  yet 
1  have  already  expressed  myself  with  sufficient  fulness, 
to  preclude  most  of  the  ill  effects  that  might  arise  from 
my  pursuing  a  contrary  arrangement.  I  will  therefore 
commence  with  what  I  deem  the  prominent  defects  of  his 
poems  hitherto  pubhshed 

The  first  characteristic^  though  only  occasional,  defect, 
which  I  appear  to  myself  to  find  in  those  poems  is  the 
INCONSTANCY  of  the  stylc.  Under  this  name  I  refer  to 
the  sudden  and  unprepared  transitions  from  lines  or  sen- 
tences of  peculiar  felicity,  (at  all  events  striking  and  ori- 
ginal) to  a  style,  not  only  unimpassioned  but  undistin- 
guished. He  sinks  too  often  and  too  abruptly  to  that 
style  which  I  should  place  in  the  second  division  of  lan- 
guage, dividing  it  into  the  three  species  ;  Jirst,  that  which 
is  pecular  to  poetry ;  second,  that  which  is  only  proper 
in  prose  ;  and,  third ,  the  neutral,  or  common  ta  both. 
There  have  been  works,  such  as  Cowley's  essay  on 
Cromwell,  in  which  prose  and  verse  are  intermixed  (not 
as  in  the  Consolation  of  Boetius  or  the  Argenis  of  Bar- 
clay, by  the  insertion  of  poems,  supposed  to  have  been 
spoken  or  composed  on  occasions  previously  related  in 
prose,  but)  the  poet  passing  from  one  to  the  other,  as 
the  nature  of  his  thoughts  or  his  own  feelings  dictated. 
Yet  this  mode  of  composition  does  not  satify  a  cultivated 
taste.  There  is  something  unpleasant  in  the  being  thus 
obliged  to  alternate  states  of  feeling  so  dissimilar,  and  this 
too  in  a  species  of  writing,  the  pleasure  from  which  is  in 
part  derived  from  the  preparation  and  previous  expect- 
ation of  the  reader.  A  portion  of  that  awkwardness  is 
felt  which  hangs  upon  the  introduction  of  so^^^s  in  our 
modern  comic  operas  ;  and  to  prevent  which  the  judi- 
cious Metastasio  (as  to  whose  exquisite  taste  there  can  be 
no  hesitation,  whatever  doubts  may  be  entertained  as  to 
his  poetic  genius)  uniformly  placed  the  aria  at  the  end 
of  the  scene,  at  the  same  time  that  he  almost  always 
raises  and  impassions  the  style  of  the  recitative  immedi- 
ately preceding.  Even  in  real  life,  the  difference  is  great 
and  evident  between  words  used  a^  the  arbitrary  marks 
a£  thought^  oui^sBiootli  market-coin  of  intercourse  with^ 

8* 


9a 

the  image  and  superscription  worn  out  by  cui*rency,  and 
those  which  convey  pictures,  either  borrowed  from  oiie 
outward  object  to  enliven  and  particularize  some  other ; 
or  used  allegorically  to  body  forth  the  inward  state  of  the 
person  speaking  ;  or  such  as  are  at  least  the  exponents 
of  his  peculiar  turn  and  unusual  extent  of  faculty.  So 
much  so  indeed,  that  in  the  social  circles  of  private  life 
we  often  find  a  striking  use  of  the  latter  put  a  stop  to 
the  general  flow  of  conversation,  and  by  the  excitement 
arising  from  concentered  attention,  produce  a  sort  of 
damp  and  interruption  for  some  minutes  after.  But  in 
the  perusal  of  works  of  literary  art,  we  prepare  ourselves 
for  such  language  ;  and  the  business  of  the  writer,  like 
that  of  a  painter  whose  subject  requires  unusual  splen- 
dour and  prominence,  is  so  to  raise  the  lower  and  neu- 
tral tints  that  what  in  a  different  style  would  be  the  com- 
manding  colours,  are  here  used  as  the  means  of  that  gen- 
tle gradation  requisite  in  order  to  produce  the  effect 
of  a  zn'hole.  Where  this  is  not  achieved  in  a  poem,  the 
metre  merely  reminds  the  reader  of  his  claims,  in  or- 
der to  disappoint  them  ;  and  where  this  defect  occurs 
frequently,  his  feelings  are  alternately  startled  by  anti- 
climax and  hyperclimax. 

I  refer  the  reader  to  the  exquisite  stanzas  cited  for 
another  purpose  from  the  blind  Highland  Boy  ;  and 
then  annex,  as  being,  in  my  opinion,  instances  of  this  dzs- 
harmony  in  style,  the  two  following  : 

"  And  one,  the  rarest,  was  a  shell. 
Which  he,  poor  child^  had  studied  well  : 
The  shell  of  a  green  turtle,  thin 
And  hollow ; — you  might  sit  therein, 
It  was  so  wide  and  deep." 

*'^iOur  Highland  boy  oft  visited 
The  house  which  held  this  prize,  and  led 
B}'  choice  or  chance  did  thither  come 
One  day,  when  no  one  was  at  home, 
And  found  the  door  unbarred." 

Or  page  172,  vol.  I. 

**  'Tis  j:one  forp^otten,  let  me  do 

My  best.    There  was  a  smile  or  two— 


91 

I  can  remember  them,  I  see 

The  smiles  worth  all  the  world  to  me. 

Dt'ar  Baby,  I  must  lay  thee  down  :  - 

Thou  Iroublesi,  me  v/ith  strange  alarms  * 

Smiles  hast  thou,  sweet  ones  of  thine  own ; 

I  cannot  keep  thee  in  my  arms. 

For  they  confound  me  :  as  it  is, 

I  have  forgot  those  smiles  of  his  ! 

Or  page  269,  vol.  I. 

*'  Thou  hast  a  nest,  for  thy  love  and  thy  rest, 
And  though  httle  troubled  with  sloth 
Drunken  lark  !  thou  would'st  be  loth 
To  be  such  a  traveller  as  I. 

Happy,  happy  liver, 
JVith  a  soul  as  strong  as  a  mountain  river 
Pouring  out  praise  to  tlV  ^^Imighty  giver, 
Joy  and  jollity  be  with  us  both, 
Hearing  thee  or  else  some  other, 

As  merry  a  brother 
I  on  the  earth  will  go  plodding  on 
By  myself  cheerfully  till  the  day  is  done.-' 

The  incongruity,  which  I  appear  to  find  in  this  pas- 
sage, is  that  of  the  two  noble  lines  in  italics  with  the 
preceding  and  following.     So,  vol.  II.  page  30. 

*•  Close  by  a  pond,  upon  the  further  side 
He  stood  alone ,  a  minute's  space  I  guess, 
I  watch'd  him.  he  continuing  motionless  ; 
To  the  pooPs  further  margin  then  I  drew ; 
He  being  all  the  while  before  me  full  in  view.'* 

Compare  this  with  the  repetition  of  the  same  image, 
jn  the  next  stanza  but  two. 

*•  And  still  as  I  drew  near  with  gentle  pace. 
Beside  the  little  pond  or  moorish  flood 
Motionless  as  a  cloud  the  old  man  stood ; 
That  heareth  not  the  loud  winds  as  the>^  call 
And  moveth  altogether,  if  it  move  at  all." 

Or,  lastly,  the  second  of  tbe  three  following  stanza^^ 
compared  both  with  the  first  and  the  third. 


92 

My  former  thoughts  returned,  the  fear  that  kills, 
And  hope  that  is  unwilling  to  be  (ed  ; 
Cold,  pain,  and  labour,  and  all  fleshly  ills  ; 
And  mighty  poets  in  their  misery  dead. 
But  now,  perplex'd  by  what  the  old  man  had  said, 
My  question  eagerly  did  I  renew, 
How  is  it  that  you  live,  and  what  is  it  you  do  ? 

He  with  a  smile  did  then  his  tale  repeat  ; 

And  said,  that,  gathering  leeches  far  and  wide 

He  travelled  :  stirring  thus  about  his  feet 

The  waters  of  the  ponds  wiiere  they  abide. 

*'  Once  I  could  meet  with  them  on  every  side, 

^'  But  they  have  dwindled  long  by  slow  decay  ; 

''  Yet  still  I  persevere,  and  find  them  where  I  may." 

While  he  was  talking  thus,  the  lonely  place. 

The  old  man's  shape,  and  speech,  all  troubled  me  : 

In  my  mind's  eye  I  seemed  to  see  him  pace 

About  the  weary  moors  continually, 

Wandering  about  alone  and  silently.'* 

Indeed,  this  fine  poem  is  especially  characteristic  of  the 
author.  There  is  scarce  a  defect  or  excellence  in  his 
writings  of  which  it  would  not  present  a  specimen.  But 
it  would  be  unjust  not  to  repeat  that  this  defect  is  only 
occasional.  From  a  careful  reperusal  of  the  two  vo- 
lumes of  poems,  I  doubt  whether  the  objectionable  pas- 
sages would  amount  in  the  whole  to  one  hundred  lines  ; 
not  the  eighth  part  of  the  number  of  pages.  In  the  Ex- 
cuRsiOxX  the  feeling  of  incongruity  is  seldom  excited  by 
the  diction  of  any  passage  considered  in  itself,  but  by  the 
sudden  superiority  of  some  other  passage  forming  the 
context. 

The  second  defect  I  could  generalize  with  tolerable 
accuracy,  if  the  reader  will  pardon  an  uncouth  and  new- 
coined  word.  There  is,  I  should  soy,  not  seldom  a  mat- 
ter-of'factness  in  certain  poems.  This  may  be  divided 
into,  first,  a  laborious  minuteness  and  fidelity  in  the  re- 
presentation of  objects,  and  their  positions,  as  they  ap- 
peared to  the  poet  himself;  secondly ,  the  insertion  of 
accidental  circumstances,  in  order  to  the  full  explanation 
of  his  living  characters,  their  dispositions  and  actions  ; 
which  circumstances  might  be  necessary  to  establish  the 
probability  of  a  statement  in  real  life,  where  nothing  is 
taken  for  granted  by  the  hearer,  but  appears  superfluous' 


93 

in  poetry,  where  the  reader  is  willing  to  believe  for  his 
own  sake.  To  this  accidentalitij  1  object,  as  contraveh- 
inj>;  the  essence  of  poetry,  which  Aristotle  proniiounces 
to  be  (rTrsSaioTGTov  ;<al  (piXcc-cqDiKWTarov  7£voj,  the  most  intense, 
■weighty,  and  philosophical  product  of  human  art ;  adding, 
as  the  reason,  that  it  is  the  most  catholic  and  abstract. 
The  following  passage  from  Davenant's  prefatory  letter 
to  Hobbs  well  expresses  this  truth.  "When  I  consi- 
dered the  actions  which  I  meant  to  describe  (those  in- 
ferring the  persons)  I  was  again  persuaded  rather  to 
choose  those  of  a  former  age,  than  the  present ;  and  in 
a  century  so  far  removed  as  might  preserve  me  from  their 
improper  examinations,  who  know  not  the  requisites  of 
a  poem,  nor  how  much  pleasure  they  lose  (and  even  the 
pleasures  of  heroic  poesy  are  not  unprofitable)  who  take 
away  the  liberty  of  a  poet,  and  fetter  his  feet  in  the 
shackles  of  an  historian.  For  why  should  a  poet  doubt 
in  story  to  mend  the  intrigues  of  Ibrtune  by  more  de- 
lightful conveyances  of  probable  iictions,  because  au- 
stere historians  have  entered  into  bond  to  truth  ?  An 
obligation,  which  were  in  poets  as  foolish  and  unneces- 
sary, as  is  the  bondage  of  false  martyrs,  who  lie  in  chains 
for  a  mistaken  opinion.  But  by  this  I  would  imply,  that 
truth,  narrative  and  past,  is  the  idol  of  historians  (who  wor- 
ship a  dead  thing)  and  truth  operative,  and  by  eff'ects  con- 
tinually  alive,  is  the  mistress  of  poets,  who  hath  not  her 
existence  in  matter,  but  in  reason.'''^ 

For  this  minute  accuracy  in  the  painting  of  local  im- 
agery, the  Hues  in  the  Excursjon,  p.  96,  97,  and  98,  may 
be  taken,  if  not  as  a  striking  instance,  yet  as  an  illustra- 
tion of  my  meaning.  It  must  be  some  strong  motive  (as, 
for  instance,  that  the  description  was  necessary  to  the 
intelligibility  of  the  tale)  which  could  induce  me  to  de- 
scribe in  a  number  of  verses  what  a  draftsman  could  pre- 
sent to  the  eye  with  incomparably  greater  saiisfactioa 
by  half  a  dozen  strokes  of  his  pencil,  or  the  painter  with 
as  many  touches  of  his  brush.  Such  descriptions  too 
often  occasion  in  the  mind  of  a  reader,  who  is  determin- 
ed to  understand  his  author,  a  feeling  of  labour,  not  very 
dissimilar  to  that  with  which  he  would  construct  a  dia- 
gram, line  by  line,  for  a  long  geometrical  proposition. 
\K  seems  to  be  liife  taking  the  pieces  of  a  dissected  niap 
out  of  its  box.     We  first  look  at  one  part,  and  then  at 


94 

another,  then  join  and  clove-tail  them;  and  when  the 
guccessive  acts  of  attention  have  been  completed,  there 
is  a  retrogressive  effort  of  mind  to  behold  it  as  a  whole. 
The  Poet  should  paint  to  the  imagination,  not  to  the  f;n- 
cy  ;  and  I  know  no  happier  case  to  exemplify  the  dis- 
tinction between  these  two  faculties.  Master-pieces  of 
the  former  mode  of  poetic  painting  abound  in  the  writ- 
ings of  Miltion,  ex.  gr. 

<'  The  fig  tree,  not  that  kind  for  fruit  renown'd, 

•'But  STJch  as  at  this  day  to  Indians  known 

^'  iL  Malabar  or  Decan,  spreads  her  arms 

"  Branching  so  broad  and  long,  that  in  the  ground 

*'  The  bended  twigs  take  root,  and  daughters  grow 

*'  About  the  mother-tree,  a  pi/Zar^d  shade 

'''  11  ^gh  over-arched,  and  echoing  walks  between; 

*■'  There  oft  the  Indian  TJerd&man  shunning:  heat 

**  Shelters  in  cool,  and  tends  his  pasturing  herds 

**  At  loop  holes  cut  through  thicket  shade.'' 

Milton,  P.  L.  9,  1100. 

This  is  creation  rather  than  paintings  or  if  painting, 
yet  such,  and  with  such  co-presence  of  the  whole  pic- 
ture flash'd  at  once  upon  the  eye,  as  the  sun  paints  in  a 
camera  obscura.  But  the  poet  must  likewise  understand 
and  command  what  Bacon  calls  the  vestigia  comnmnia  of 
the  senses,  the  latency  of  all  in  each,  and  more  espe- 
cially, as  by  a  magical  penna  duplex,  the  excitement  of 
vision  by  sound  and  the  exponents  of  sound,  thus,  "  The 
ECHOING  WALKS  BETWEEN,"  may  be  almost  said  to  reverse 
the  fable  in  tradition  of  the  head  of  Memnon,  in  the 
Eg3^ptian  statue.  Such  may  be  deservedly  entitled  the 
creative  words  in  the  w^orld  of  imagination 

The  second  division  respects  an  apparent  minute  ad- 
herence to  matter -of 'fact  in  character  and  incidents  ;  a 
biographical  attention  to  probability,  and  an  anxiety  of 
explanation  and  retrospect.  Under  this  head  I  shall  de- 
liver, with  no  feigned  diffidence,  the  results  of  my  best 
reflection  on  the  great  point  of  controversy  between  Mr. 
Wordsworth,  and  his  objectors  ;  namely,  on  the  choice 
OF  HIS  CHARACTERS.  1  havc  already  declared,  and,  I 
trust  justified,  my  utter  dissent  from  the  mode  of  argument 
which  his  critics  have  liitherto  employed.  To  their 
question,  why  did  you  choose  such  a  character,  or  a  cha- 


95 

pacter  from  such  a  rank  of  life  ?  the  Poet  might,  in  my 
opinion,  fairly  retort:  why,  with  the  concen.^on  of  my 
character  did  you   make  wilful   choice  of  mean  or  ludi- 
crous associations  not  furnished  by  me,  but  supplied  from 
your  own  sickly  and  i^istidious   feelings  ?     How   was   it, 
indeed,   probable,  that  such  arguments  could   have    any 
weight  with  an  author,  whose  plan,  whose  guiding  prin- 
ciple   and  main  object  it   was  to  attack  and  subdue  that 
state  of  association,   which   leads   us  to  place  the  chief 
value  on  those  things  on  which  man  differs  from  man, 
and  to  forget  or  disregard  the  high  dignities,  which  be- 
long to  HUMAN  NATURE,  the  seuse  and  the  feeling,  which 
may  be,  and  ought  to  be,  found  in  all  ranks  ?    The  feel- 
ings  with  which,  as  christians,  we  contemplate  a  mixed 
congregation   rising  or  kneeling*   before  their  common 
maker,  Mr,   Wordsworth  would  have  us  entertain  at  all 
times  as  men,  and  as  readers  ;  and  by  the  excitement  of 
this  lofty,  yet  prideless  impartiality  in  poetry,  he  might 
hope   to   have   encouraged   its  continuance   in  real  life. 
The  praise  of  good   men  be   his  !     In  real  hfe,  and,  I 
trust,   even  in  my  imagination,  1  honour  a  virtuous  and 
wise  man,  without  reference  to  the  presence  or  absence 
of  artificial  advantages.      Whether  in  the  person   of  an 
armed  baron,  a  laurel'd  bard,  &c.  or  of  an  old  pedlar,  ^ 
still  older  leach-gatherer,  the  same  qualities  of  head  and 
heart  must  claim  the  same  reverence.     And  even  in  po- 
etry I  am  not  conscious  that  I  have  ever  suffered    my 
feelings  to  be  disturbed  or  offended  by  any   thoughts  or 
images,  which  the  poet  himself  has  not  presented. 

But  yet  I  object,  nevertheless,  and  for  the  following 
reasons  :  First,  because  the  object  in  view,  as  an  inime" 
diate  object,  belongs  to  the  moral  philosopher,  and  would 
be  pursued,  not  only  more  appropriately,  but  in  my 
opinion  with  far  greater  probability  of  success,  in  ser- 
mons or  moral  essays,  than  in  an  elevated  poem.  It 
seems,  indeed,  to  destroy  the  main  fundamental  distinc- 
tion, not  only  between  a  poem  and  prose^  but  even  be- 
tween philosophy  and  works  of  fiction,  inasmuch  as  it 
proposes  truth  for  its  immediate  object,  instead  of  plea- 
sure.  Now,  till  the  blessed  time  shall  come,  when  truth 
itself  shall  be  pleasure,  and  both  shall  be  so  united  as  to 
be  distinguishable  in  words  only,  not  in  feeling,  it  will 
remaia  the  poet's  office  to  proceed  upon  that  state  of  as- 


96 

-ociation  which  actually  exists  as  general,  instead  of  ati 
tempting-  tir^t  to  make  it  what  it  ouii^ht  lO  be,  and  then  t4 
let  the    pleasure   follow.     But   here   is   unfortunately 
small  Hysteron-Froteron,   For  the  communication  of  plea 
sure  is  the  introductory  means  by  which  alone  the  p06 
must  expect  to  moralize  his  readers.     Secondly  :  thoug 
I  were  to  admit,   for   a   moment,  this  argument   to   bJ 
groundless,  yet,  how  is  the  moral  effect  to  be  produceo 
by  merely  att-iching  the  name  of  some  low  profession 
powers  which  are  least  likely,  and  to  qualities  which  ar 
assuredly  not  ?nore  likely,  to  be  found  in  it  ?     The  poe^ 
speaking  in  his  own  person,  may  at  once  delight  and  im- 
prove us  by  sentiments,  whicn  teach  us  the  independence 
of  goodness,  of  wisdom,  and  even  of  genius,  on  the  fa- 
vours of  fortune.     And  having  made  a  due  reverence  be- 
fore the  throne  of  Antonine,  he  may  bow  with  equal  awe 
before  Epictetus  among  his  fellow-slaves — 


: _«._  »'  and  rejoice 

In  the  plain  presence  of  his  dignity." 

Who  is  not  at  once  delighted  and  improved,  when  the 
POET  Wordsworth  himself  exclaims, 

*'  O  many  are  the  poets  that  are  sown 
By  Nature  ;  men  endowed  with  highest  gifts, 
The  vision  send  the  faculty  divine. 
Yet  wanting  the  accomplishment  of  verse, 
Nor  having  e'er   as  life  advanced,  been  led 
By  circumstance  to  take  unto  the  height 
The  measure  of  themselves,  these  favour'd  beings, 
All  but  a  scattered  few,  live  out  their  time 
Husbanding  that  which  they  possess  within. 
And  go  to  the  grave  unthought  of.  Strongest  minds 
Are  often  those  of  whom  the  noisy  world 
Hears  least." 

Excursion,  B.  I. 

To  use  a  colloquial  phrase,  such  sentiments  in  such  lan- 
guage, do  one's  heart  good  ;  though  1,  for  my  part,  have 
not  the  fullest  faith  in  the  truth  of  the  observation.  On 
the  contrary,  1  beheve  the  instances  to  be  exceedingly 
rare  ;  and  should  feel  almost  as  strong  an  objection  to 
introduce  such  a  character  in  a  poetic  fiction,  as  a  i>air 
of  black  swans  on  a  lake,  in  a  fancy-landscape.     When  I 


97 

think  how  many,  and  how  much  better  books  than  Ho- 
mer, or  even  than  Herodotus,  Pindar  or  Eschjlus,  could 
have  read,  are  in  the  power  of  almost  every  man,  in  a 
country  where  almost  every  man  is  instructed  to  read 
and  write  ;  and  how  restless,  how  difficultly  hidden,  the 
powers  of  genius  are  ;  and  yet  find  even  in  situations 
the  most  favourable,  according  to  Mr.  Wordsworth,  for 
the  formation  of  a  pure  and  poetic  language  ;  in  situa- 
tions which  ensure  familiarity  with  the  grandest  objects 
of  the  imagination  ;  but  one  Burns,  among  the  shepherds 
of  Scotland,  and  not  a  single  poet  of  humble  life  among 
those  of  English  lakes  and  mountains  ;  I  conclude,  that 
Poetic  Genius  is  not  only  a  very  delicate  but  a  very 
jare  plant. 

But  be  this  as  it  may,  the  feelings  with  which, 

**  I  think  of  Chatterton,  the  marvellous  boy, 
The  sleepless  soul,  that  perish'd  in  his  pride  : 
Of  Burns,  that  walk'd  in  glory  and  in  joy 
Behind  his  plough  upon  the  mountain-side" — 

are  widely  different  from  those  with  which  I  should  read 
a  poem^  where  the  author,  having  occasion  for  the  cha- 
racter of  a  poet  and  a  philosopher  in  the  fable  of  his  nar- 
ration, had  chosen  to  make  him  a  chimney  sweeper ;  and 
then,  in  order  to  remove  all  doubts  on  the  subject,  had 
invented  an  account  of  his  birth,  parentage,  and  educa- 
tion, with  all  the  strange  and  fortunate  accidents  which 
had  concurred  in  making  him  at  once  poet,  philosopher, 
and  sweep  I  Nothing  but  biography  can  justify  this.  If 
h  be  admissible  even  in  a  Novell  it  must  be  one  in  the 
manner  of  De  Foe's,  that  were  meant  to  pass  for  histories, 
not  in  the  manner  of  Fielding's  ;  in  the  life  of  Moll  Flan- 
ders, or  Colonel  Jack,  not  in  a  Tom  Jones,  or  even  a  Jo- 
seph Andrews.  Much  less,  then,  can  it  be  legitimately- 
introduced  in  a  poem,  the  characters  of  which,  amid  the 
strongest  individualization,  must  still  remain  representa- 
tive. The  precepts  of  Horace,  on  this  point,  are  ground- 
ed on  the  nature  both  of  poetry  and  of  the  human  mind. 
They  are  not  more  peremptory  than  wise  and  prudent* 
For,  in  the  first  place,  a  deviation^  from  them  perplexes 
the  reader's  feelings,  and  all  the  circumstances  which  are 
feigned,  in  order  to  make  such  accidents  less  improbable, 
Vot.  II.  9 


98 

divide  and  disquiet  his  faith,  rather  than  aid  and  support 
it.  Spite  of  all  attempts,  the  fiction  -ivill  appear,  and,  un- 
fortunately, not  zsjictidous^  but  diS  false.  The  reader  not 
only  knows,  that  the  sentiments  and  language  are  the 
poet's  own,  and  his  own  too,  in  his  artificial  character  as 
poei ;  but,  by  the  fruitless  endeavours  to  make  him  think 
the  contrary,  he  is  not  even  suffered  to  forget  it.  The 
effect  is  similar  to  that  produced  by  an  epic  poet,  when 
the  fable  and  the  characters  are  derived  from  Scripture 
history,  as  in  the  Messiah  of  Klopstock,  or  in  Cumber^ 
land's  Calvary  ;  and  not  merely  suggested  by  it  as  in  the 
Paradise  Lost  of  Milton.  That  illusion,  contradistin- 
guished from  delusion,  that  negative  faith  which  simply 
permits  the  images  presented  to  work  by  their  ow^n  force, 
without  either  denial  or  affirmation  of  their  real  existence 
by  the  judgment,  is  rendered  impossible  by  their  imme- 
diate neighbourhood  to  words  and  facts  of  known  and  ab- 
solute truth.  A  faith  which  transcends  even  historic  be- 
lief, must  absolutely  put  out  this  mere  poetic  A»alagon 
of  faith,  as  the  summer  sun  is  said  to  extinguish  our 
household  fires  when  it  shines  full  upon  them.  What 
would  otherwise  have  been  yielded  to  as  pleasing  fiction, 
is  repelled  as  revolting  falsehood.  The  effect  produced 
in  this  latter  case  by  the  solemn  belief  of  the  reader,  is 
in  a  less  degree  brought  about,  in  the  instances  to  which 
I  have  been  objecting,  by  the  baffled  attempts  of  the  au- 
thor to  make  him  believe. 

Add  to  all  the  foregoing,  the  seeming  uselessness  both 
of  the  project  and  of  the  anecdotes  from  which  it  is  to 
derive  support.  Is  there  one  word,  for  instance,  attri- 
buted to  the  pedlar  in  the  Excursion,  characteristic  of  a 
pedlar?  One  sentiment  that  might  not  more  plausibly, 
even  without  the  aid  of  any  previous  explanation,  have 
proceeded  from  any  wise  and  beneficent  oW  man,  of  a 
rank  or  j-rofession  in  which  the  language  of  learning  and 
refinement  are  Jiatural,  and  to  be  expected  ?  Need  the 
rank  have  been  at  all  particularized,  where  nothing  fol- 
lows which  the  knowledge  of  that  rank  is  to  explain  or 
illustrate  ?  When,  on  the  contrary,  this  information  ren- 
ders the  man's  language,  feelings,  sentiments,  and  infor- 
mation, a  riddle  which  must  itself  be  solved  by  episodes 
of  anecdote  ?  Finally,  when  this,  and  this  alone,  could 
have  induced  a  genuine  poet  to  inweave  in  a  poem  of  the 


99 

loftiest  style,  and  on  subjects  the  loftiest  and  of  most 
universal  interest,  such  minute  matters  of  fact,  (not  un- 
like those  furnished  for  the  obituary  of  a  magazine  by 
the  friends  of  some  obscure  ornament  of  society  lately  de- 
ceased in  some  obscure  town,  as, 

*'  Among'  the  hills  of  Athol  he  was  born. 
There,  on  a  small  hereditary  farm, 
An  unproductive  slip  of  rugged  ground, 
His  Father  dwelt,  and  died,  in  poverty  ; 
While  he,  whose  lowly  fortune  I  retrace, 
1  iie  youngest  of  three  sons,  was  yet  a  babe, 
A  lUlle  oae^-unconscious  of  their  loss. 
But  *ere  he  had  outgrown  his  infant  days, 
His  widow'd  mother,  for  a  second  mate. 
Espoused  the  teacher  of  the  Village  School ; 
Who  on  her  offspring  zealously  bestowed 
Needful  instruction." 

"  From  his  sixth  year,  the  boy  of  whom  I  speak, 

In  summer,  tended  cattle  on  the  hills ; 

But  through  the  inclement  and  the  perilous  days 

Of  long-continuing  winter,  he  repaired 

To  his  step-father's  school." — &o. 

For  all  the  admirable  passages  interposed  in  this  nar- 
ration, might,  with  trifling  alterations,  have  been  far  more 
appropriately,  and  with  far  greater  verisimilitude,  told  of 
a  poet  in  the  character  of  a  poet  ;  and  without  incurring 
another  defect  which  I  shall  now  mention,  and  a  sufficient 
illustration  of  which  will  have  been  here  anticipated. 

Third  ;  an  undue  predilection  for  the  dramatic  form  in 
certain  poems,  from  which  one  or  other  of  two  evils  re- 
sult. Cither  the  thoughts  and  diction  are  different  from 
that  of  the  poet,  and  then  there  arises  an  incongruity  of 
style  ;  or  they  are  the  same  and  indistinguishable,  and 
then  it  presents  a  species  of  ventriloquism,  where  two  are 
represented  as  talking^  while,  in  truth,  one  man  only 
speaks. 

The  fourth  class  of  defects  is  closely  connected  with 
the  former;  but  yet  are  such  as  arise  likewise  from  an 
intensity  of  feeling  disproportionate  to  such  knowledge 
and  value  of  the  objects  described;  as  can  be  fairly  anti- 
cipated of  men  in  general,  even  of  the  most  cultivated 
classes;  and  with  which,  therefore,  few  only,  and  those 


100 

lew  particularly  circumstanced,  can  be  supposed  to  sym^ 
pathise.  In  this  class  I  comprise  occasional  prolixity,! 
repetition,  and  an  eddying  instead  of  progression  of 
thought.  As  instances,  see  page  27,  28,  and  62,  of  the 
Poems,  Vol.  I.,  an«l  the  first  eighty  lines  of  the  Sixth 
Book  of  the  Excursion. 

Fifth,  and  last  ;  thoughts  and  images  too  great  for  the 
subject.  This  is  an  approximation  to  what  might  be 
called  mental  bombast,  as  distinguished  from  verbal  ; 
for,  as  in  the  latter,  there  is  a  dispro[)ortion  of  the  expres- 
sions to  the  thoughts,  so,  in  this,  there  is  a  disproportion 
of  thou;^,ht  to  the  circumstance  and  occasion.  This,  by- 
th^  by,  is  a  fault  of  which  none  but  a  man  of  geniun  is 
capable.  It  is  the  awkwardness  and  strength  of  Hercules 
with  the  distaff  of  Omphale. 

It  is  a  well-known  fact,  that  bright  colours  in  motion 
both  make  and  leave  the  strongest  impressions  on  the 
eye.  Nothing  is  more  likely,  too,  than  that  a  vivid  image, 
or  visual  spectrum,  thus  originated,  may  become  the  link 
of  association  in  recalling  the  feelings  and  images  ihat 
had  accompanied  the  original  impression.  But,  if  we 
tlescribe  this  in  such  lines  as 

"  They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye^ 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude !" 

in  w^hat  words  shall  we  describe  the  joy  of  retrospection, 
when  the  images  and  virtuous  actions  of  a  whole  well- 
spent  life,  pass  before  that  conscience  which  is,  indeed, 
the  inward  eye  ;  which  is,  indeed,  the  **  bliss  of  solitude  ?^^ 
Assuredly  we  seem  to  sink  most  abruptly,  not  to  say  bur- 
iesquely,  and  almost  as  in  a  medly  from  this  couplet  to — 

"  And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  daffodils,'^'     Vol.  I.,  p.  320. 

The  second  instance  is  from  Vol.  II.,  page  12,  where 
the  poet,  having  gone  out  for  a  day's  tour  of  pleasure, 
meets,  early  in  the  morning,  with  a  knot  of  gypsies^  who 
had  pitched  their  blanket  tents  and  straw-beds,  together 
with  their  children  and  asses,  in  some  field  by  the  road- 
side. At  the  close  of  the  day,  on  his  return,  our  tourist 
found  them  in  the  same  place.  *'  Twelve  hours,"  says  he. 


101 

*'•  Twelve  hours,  twelve  bounteous  hours,  are  gone  while  I 
Have  been  a  traveller  under  open  sk}', 
IVluch  witnessing"  of  cbang-e  and  cheer, 
Yet  as  I  left  I  find  them  here  !" 

Whereat  the  poet,  without  seeming  to  reflect  that  the 
poor  tawny  wanderers  might  probably  have  been  tramp- 
ing, for  weeks  together,  through  road  lane,  over  moor  and 
mountain,  and,  consequently,  must  have  been  right  glad 
to  rest  themselves,  their  children,  and  cattle,  for  one 
whole  day  ;  and  overlooking  the  obvious  truth,  that  such 
repose  m.ight  be  quite  as  necessary  for  them  as  a  walk 
of  ihe  same  continuance  was  pleasing  or  healthful  for  the 
more  fortunate  poet  ;  expresses  his  indignation  in  a  se- 
ries of  lines,  the  diction  and  imagery  of  which  would 
have  been  rather  above  than  below  the  mark,  had  they 
been  applied  to  the  immense  empire  of  China,  impro- 
gressive  for  thirty  centuries  : 

"  The  weary  Sun  betook  himself  to  rest. 

Then  issued  Vesper  from  the  fulgent  west» 

Outshining,  like  a  visible  God, 

The  glorious  path  in  which  he  trod  ! 

And  now  ascending,  after  one  dark  hour. 

And  one  night's  diminution  of  her  power. 

Behold  the  mighty  Moon  !  this  way 

She  looks,  as  if  at  them— but  they 

Regard  not  her — Oh,  better  wrong  and  strife,^ 

Better  vain  deeds  or  evil  than  such  life  ! 

The  silent  Heavens  have  goings  on  : 

The  Stars  have  tasks ! — but  these  have  none  !'* 

The  last  instance  of  this  defect,  (for  I  know  no  other 
than  these  already  cited,)  is  from  the  Ode,  page  351, 
Vol.  II.,  where,  speaking  of  a  child,  '  a  six  year's  dar- 
ling of  a  pigmy  size,"  he  thus  addresses  him : 

*'  Thou  best  philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage  !  Thou  eye  among  the  blind. 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep; 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  Eternal  Mind- 
Mighty  Prophet  !  Seer  blest ! 
On  whom  those  truths  do  rest,     ^ 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find  I 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  immortality 
9^ 


10-2 

Broods  like  the  day,  a  master  o'er  the  slav^ 
A  presence  that  is  not  to  be  put  by  !*' 

Now  here,  not  to  stop  at  the  daring  spirit  of  metaphor 
which  connects  the  epithets  ''deat'and  silent/'  with  the 
apostrophized  eye  :  or  (if  we  are  to  refer  it  to  the  pre- 
ceding word,  philosopher,)  the  faulty  and  equivocal  syn- 
tax of  the  passage  ;  and  without  examining  the  propriety  | 
of  making  a  *' master  6rooc?  o'er  a  slave,"  or  the  day  1 
hrood  at  all ;  we  will  merely  ask,  what  does  aM  this 
mean  ?  In  what  sense  is  a  child  of  that  age  a  philoso- 
pher /  In  what  sense  does  he  read  ""the  eternal  deep?" 
In  what  sense  is  he  declared  to  be  ''for  ever  haunted  by 
the  Supreme  Beins:  ?*'  or  so  inspired  as  to  deserve  the 
splendid  lilies  of  a  jiu'ghty  prophet,  sl  blessed  seer  /  By 
ret^ection  ?  by  knowledge  ?  by  conscious  intuition  ?  or  by 
any  form  or  inoditication  of  consciousness?'*  Tbese 
would  be  tidings  indeed  ;  but,  such  as  would  pre-suppose 
an  immediate  revelation  to  the  inspired  communicator, 
2nd  require  miracles  to  authenticate  his  inspiration. 
Children,  at  this  age,  give  us  no  such  intormation  of  them- 
selves ;  and  at  what  time  were  we  dipt  in  the  Lethe, 
\Thich  has  produced  such  utter  oblision  of  a  state  so  god- 
like ?  There  are  Oiany  of  us  that  still  possess  some  re- 
membrances, more  or  less  distinct,  respecting  themselves 
at  six  years  old  ;  pity  that  the  worthless  straws  only 
should  float,  while  treasures,  compared  with  which  all  the 
mines  of  Golconda  and  Mexico  were  but  straws,  should 
be  absorbed  by  some  unknown  gulf  into  some  unknown 
abyss 

But  if  this  be  too  wild  and  exorbitant  to  be  suspected 
as  having  been  the  poet's  meaning  ;  if  these  mysterious 
gi-fts,  faculties,  and  operations,  are  no:  accomp.mied  with 
consciousness  ;  who  else  is  conscious  of  them  ?  or  how 
can  it  be  ciUled  the  child,  if  it  be  no  part  of  the  child's 
conscious  being  ?  For  aught  I  know,  the  thinking  Spirit 
T\ithin  me  may  be  substamially  one  with  the  princi}>le  of 
life,  and  of  vital  operation.  For  aught  I  know,  it  may  be 
emploved  as  a  secondary  agent  in  the  marvellous  organi- 
zation and  organic  movements  of  my  body.  But,  surely, 
it  would  be  strauiie  language  to  say.  that  /  construct 
my  heart  !  or  that  /  propel  the  finer  intluences  through 
my  nenesJ  or  that  /compress  my  brain,  and  draw  the 


103 

curtains  of  sleep  round  my  own  eyes  !  Spinoza  and  Beh- 
MEN  were,  on  different  systems,  both  Pantheists  ;  and 
among  the  ancients  there  were  philosophers,  teachers 
of  the  EN  K  \I  TIaNj  w^ho  not  only  taught,  that  God  was 
All,  but  that  this  All  constituted  God.  Yet  not  even 
these  would  confound  the  part^  as  a  part  with  the  whole, 
as  the  whole.  Nay,  in  no  system  is  the  distinction  be- 
tween the  individual  and  God,  between  the  Modification, 
and  the  one  only  Substance,  more  sharply  drawn,  than 
in  that  of  Spinoza.  Jacobi,  indeed,  relates  of  Lessing, 
that  after  a  conversation  with  him  at  the  house  of  the 
poet,  Gleim,  (the  Tyrtaeus  and  Anacreon  of  the  Ger- 
man Parnassus,)  in  which  conversation  L.  had  avowed 
privately  to  Jacobi  his  reluctance  to  admit  any  personal 
existence  of  the  Supreme  Being,  or  the  possibility  of  per- 
sonality except  in  a  finite  Intellect,  and  while  they  were 
sitting  at  table,  a  shower  of  rain  came  on  unexpectedly,- 
Gleim  expressed  his  regret  at  the  circumstance,  because 
they  had  meant  to  drink  their  wine  in  the  garden  ;  upon 
which  Lessing,  in  one  of  his  half-earnest,  half-joking 
moods,  nodded  to  Jacobi,  and  said,  '*  It  is  /,  perhaps,  that 
am  doing  i/ia^,"  i.  e.  raining  !  and  J.  answered,  "  or 
perhaps  I  ;"  Gleim  contented  himself  with  staring  at 
them  both,  without  asking  for  any  explanation. 

So  with  regard  to  this  passage.  In  what  sense  can 
the  magnificent  attributes,  above  quoted,  be  appropriated 
to  a  child,  which  would  not  make  them  equally  suitable 
to  a  bee,  or  a  dog,  or  afield  of  corn  ;  or  even  to  a  ship, 
or  to  the  wind  and  waves  that  propel  it  ?  The  omni 
present  Spirit  works  equally  in  them,  as  in  the  child  ; 
and  the  child  is  equally  unconscious  of  it  as  they.  It 
cannot  surely  be,  that  the  four  lines,  immediately  follow- 
iug,  are  to  contain  the  explanation  ? 

*'  To  whom  the  grave 
Is  but  a  lonely  bed  without  the  sense  or  j-Ight 

Of  day  or  ilie  warm  light, 
A  place  of  thought  where  we  in  waitiug  lie.'* 

Surely,  it  cannot  be  that  this  wonder-rousing  apostro- 
phe is  but  a  comment  on  the  little  poem  of  ''  We  are 
Seven  ?"  that  the  whole  meaning  of  the  passage  is  redu- 
cible to  the  assertion,  that  a  child,  who  by  the  bye  at  six 


104 

years  old  would  have  been  better  instructed  in  most 
christian  families,  has  no  other  notion  of  death  than  that 
of  lying  in  a  dark,  cold  place  ?  And  still,  I  hope,  not  as 
in  a  place  of  thought  !  not  the  frightful  notion  of  lying 
awake  in  his  grave  !  The  analogy  between  death  and  sleep 
is  too  simple,  too  natural,  to  render  so  horrid  a  belief 
possible  for  children  ;  even  had  they  not  been  in  the 
habit,  as  all  christian  children  are,  of  hearing  the  latter 
term  used  to  express  the  former.  But  if  the  child's 
belief  be  only,  that  '*  he  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth  ;" 
wherein  does  it  differ  from  that  of  his  father  and  mother, 
or  any  other  adult  and  instructed  person  ?  To  form  an 
idea  of  a  thing's  becoming  nothing,  or  of  nothing  beco- 
ming a  thing,  is  impossible  to  all  finite  beings  alike,  of 
whatever  age,  and  however  educated  or  uneducated. 
Thus  it  is  with  splendid  paradoxes  in  general.  If  the 
words  are  taken  in  the  common  sense,  they  convey  an 
absurdity  ;  and  if,  in  contempt  of  dictionaries  and  custom, 
they  are  so  interpreted  as  to  avoid  the  absurdity,  the 
meaning  dwindles  into  some  bald  truism.  Thus  you 
must  at  once  understand  the  words  coiitrary  to  their  com- 
mon import,  in  order  to  arrive  at  any  sense  ;  and  accor- 
ding to  their  common  import,  if  you  are  to  receive  from 
them  any  feeling  oi  suhlimity  or  admiration. 

Though  the  instances  of  this  defect  in  Mr.  Words- 
worth's poems  are  so  i^e^w^  that  for  themselves  it  would 
have  been  scarcely  just  to  attract  the  reader's  attention 
toward  them  ;  yet  1  have  dwelt  on  it,  and  perhaps  the 
more  for  this  very  reason.  For  being  so  very  few,  they 
cannot  sensibly  detract  from  the  reputation  of  an  author, 
who  is  even  characterized  by  the  number  of  profound 
truths  in  his  writings,  which  will  stand  the  severest  analy- 
sis ;  and  yei,  few  as  they  are,  they  are  exactly  those 
passages  which  his  blind  admirers  would  be  most  likely 
and  best  able,  to  imitate.  But  Wordsworth,  where  he 
is  indeed  Wordsworth,  may  be  mimicked  by  copyists, 
he  may  be  plundered  by  pagiarists  ;  but  he  can  not  be 
imitated,  except  by  those  who  are  not  born  to  be  imitators. 
For  without  his  depth  of  feeling  and  his  imaginative  pow- 
er, his  sense  would  want  its  vital  warmth  and  peculiarity  ; 
and  without  his  strong  sense,  his  mysticism  would  become 
sickly — mere  fog  and  dimness  ! 


105 

To  these  defects,  which,  as  appears  by  the  extracts, 
are  only  occasional,  i  may  oppose,  with  far  less  fsar  of 
encounterini^  the  dissent  of  any  candid  and  intellii^ent 
reader,  the  following  (for  the  most  part  correspondent) 
excellencies.  First,  an  austere  purity  of  language,  both 
grammatically  and  logically  ;  in  short,  a  perfect  appro- 
priateness of  the  words  to  the  meaning.  Of  how  high 
value  I  deem  this,  and  how  particularly  estimable  I  hold 
the  example  at  the  present  day,  has  been  already  stated  : 
and  in  part,  too,  the  reasons  on  which  1  ground  both  the 
moral  and  intellectual  importance  of  habituating  ourselves 
to  a  strict  accuracy  of  expression.  It  is  noticeable,  how 
limited  an  acquaintance  with  the  masterpieces  of  art  will 
suffice  to  form  a  correct,  and  even  a  sensitive  taste, 
where  none  but  master-pieces  have  been  seen  and  ad- 
mired :  while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  most  correct  no- 
tions, and  the  widest  acquaintance  with  the  works  of 
excellence  of  all  ages  and  countries,  will  not  perfectly 
secure  us  against  the  contagious  familiarity  with  the  far 
more  numerous  ofTspring  of  tastelessness  or  of  a  pervert- 
ed taste.  If  this  be  the  case,  as  it  notoriously  is,  with 
the  arts  of  music  and  painting,  much  more  difficult  will 
it  be  to  avoid  the  infection  of  multiplied  and  daily 
examples  in  the  practice  of  an  art,  which  uses  words, 
and  words  only,  as  its  instruments.  In  poetry,  in  which 
every  line,  every  phrase,  may  pass  the  ordeal  of  dehbe- 
ration  and  deliberate  choice,  it  is  possible,  and  barely 
possible,  to  attain  that  ultimatum  which  I  have  ventured 
to  propose  as  the  infallible  test  of  a  blameless  style  : 
namely,  its  untranslatahleness  in  words  of  the  same 
language  without  injury  to  the  meaning.  Be  it  observed, 
however,  that  I  include  in  the  meaning  of  a  word  not 
only  its  correspondent  object,  but  likewise  all  the  asso- 
ciations which  it  recalls.  For  language  is  framed  to  con- 
vey not  the  object  alone,  but  likewise  the  character, 
mood,  and  intentions  of  the  person  who  is  representing 
it.  In  poetry  it  is  practicable  to  preserve  the  diction, 
uncorrupted  by  the  aflectations  and  misappropiiations, 
which  promiscuous  authorship,  and  reading  not  promis- 
cuous, onl}^  because  it  is  disproportioualiy  most  conver- 
sant with  the  compositions  of  the  day,  have  rendered 
general.  Yet,  even  to  the  poet,  composing  in  his  own 
province,  it  is  an  arduous  work  :  and  as  the  result  and 


106 


pledi^e  of  a  watchful  good  sense,  of  tine  and  lumino 
distinction,  and  of  complete  self-possession,  may  justly 
claim  all  the  hononr  which  belongs  to  an  attainment 
equally  difficult  and  valuable,  and  the  more  -  aluable  for 
being  rare.  It  is  at  all  times  the  proper  food  of  the  un- 
derstanding ;  but,  in  an  age  of  corrupt  eloquence,  it  is 
both  food  and  antidote. 

In  prose,  I  doubt  whether  it  be  even  possible  to  pre- 
serve our  style,  v*^holly  unalloyed  by  the  vicious  phrase- 
elogy  which  meets  us  every  where,  from  the  sermon  to 
the  newspaper,  from  the  harangue  of  the  legislator  to  the 
speech  from  the  convivial  chair,  announcing  a  toast  or 
sentiment.  Our  chains  rattle,  even  v*^hile  we  are  com- 
plaining of  them.  The  poems  of  Boetius  rise  high  in  our 
estimation  when  we  compare  them  with  those  of  his  con- 
temporaries, as  Sidonius  Apollinaris,  &c.  They  might 
even  be  referred  to  a  purer  age,  but  that  the  prose  in 
which  they  are  set  as  jewels  in  a  crown  of  lead  or  iron, 
betrays  the  true  age  of  the  writer.  Much,  however, 
juay  be  effected  by  education.  I  believe,  not  only  from 
grounds  of  reason,  but  from  having,  in  great  measure,  as- 
sured myself  of  the  fact  by  actual  though  limited  expe- 
rience, that,  to  a  youth,  led  from  his  first  boyhood  to  in- 
vestigate the  meaning  of  every  word,  and  the  reason  of 
its  choice  and  position,  logic  presents  itself  as  an  old  ac- 
quaintance under  new  names. 

On  some  future  occasion  more  especially  demanding 
such  disquisition,  I  shall  attempt  to  prove  the  close  con- 
nection between  veracity  and  habits  of  mental  accuracy  ; 
the  beneficial  after-eflects  of  verbal  precision  in  the  pre- 
clusion of  fanaticism,  which  masters  the  feelings  more 
especially  by  indistinct  watch-words  ;  and  to  display  the 
advantages  which  language  alone,  at  least  which  language 
with  incomparably  greater  ease  and  certainty  than  any 
other  means,  presents  to  the  instructor  of  impressing 
modes  of  intellectual  energy  so  constantly,  so  impercep- 
tibly, and,  as  it  were,  by  such  elements  and  atoms  as  to 
secure  in  due  time  the  formation  of  a  second  nature. 
When  we  reflect,  that  the  cultivation  of  the  judg- 
ment is  a  positive  command  of  the  moral  law,  since  the 
reason  can  give  the  principle  alone,  and  the  conscience 
bears  witness  only  to  the  motive^  while  the  application 
and  effects  must  depend  on  the  judgment ;  when  we  con- 
sider, that  the  greater  part  cf  our  success  and  comfort 


107 

in  life  depemls  on  distinguishing  the  similar  from  the 
same,  that  which  is  pecuhar -in  each  thing  from  that 
which  it  has  in  common  with  others,  so  as  still  to  select 
the  most  probable,  instead  of  the  merely  possible  or 
positively  unfit,  we  shall  learn  to  value  earnestly,  and 
with  a  practical  seriousness,  a  mean  already  prepared  for 
us  by  nature  and- society,  of  teaching  the  young  mind  to 
think  well  and  wisely  by  the  same  unremembered  process, 
and  with  the  same  never  forgotten  results,  as  those  by 
w^hich  it  is  taught  to  speak  aud  converse.  Now,  how 
much  v/armer  the  interest,  how  much  more  genial  the 
feelings  of  reality  and  practicability,  and  thence  how  much 
stronger  the  impulses  to  imitation  are,  which  a  contem- 
2^orary  writer,  and  especially  acontempory  poe/J,  excites 
in  youth  and  commencing  manhood,  has  been  treated  of  in 
the  earlier  pages  of  these  sketches.  I  have  only  to  add, 
that  all  the  praise  which  is  due  to  the  exertion  of  such 
influence  for  a  purpose  so  important,  joined  with  that 
which  riiust  be  claimed  for  the  infrequency  of  the  same 
excellence  in  the  same  perfection,  belongs  in  full  ri^ht 
to  Mr.  Wordsworth.  I  am  far,  however,  from  den}^- 
ing  that  we  have  poets  whose  general  style  possesses  the 
same  excellence  as  Mr.  Moore,  Lord  Byron,  Mr.  Bowles, 
and,  in  all  his  later  and  more  important  works,  our  lau- 
rel-honouring Laureate.  But  there  are  none,  in  whose 
works  I  do  not  appear  to  myself  to  find  more  excep- 
tions than  in  those  of  Wordsworth.  Quotations  or 
specimens  would  here  be  wholly  out  of  place,  and  must 
be  left  for  the  critic  who  doubts  and  would  invalidate 
the  justice  of  this  eulogy  so  applied. 

The  second  characteristic  excellence  of  Mr.  W's 
works  is,  a  correspondent  wiight  and  sanity  of  the 
thoughts  and  sentiments — won,  not  from  books,  but — 
from  the  poet's  own  meditative  observation.  They  are 
fresh,  and  have  the  dew  upon  them.  His  muso,  at  least 
when  in  her  strength  of  wing,  and  when  she  hovers 
aloft  in  her  proper  element, 


Makes  audible  a  linked  lay  of  truth, 

Of  truth  profound  a  sweet  continuous  lay, 

Not  learnt,  but  native,  her  own  natural  notes  ! 

S.  T.  C. 


108 

Even  throughout  his  smaller  poems  there  is  scarce! 
one  wliich   is  not  rendered  valuable  by  some  just  an(3l 
ori2;in'l  reilection. 

See  pa^e  26,  vol.  2nd  ;  or  the  two  following  passages 
In  one  of  his  humblest  compositions. 

*'  O  Reader  !  had  you  in  5our  mind 
Such  stores  as  silent  thought  can  bring, 
O  gentle  Hearder  1  yuu  would  find 
A  tale  in  every  thing." 
and 

*'  T  have  heard  of  hearts  unkind,  kind  deeds 
With  coldness  still  returning  : 
Alas!   the  gratitude  of  men 
Has  oftener  left  me  mourning." 

or  in   a  still  higher  strain  the  six  beautiful   quatrains, 
page  134. 

"  Thus  fares  it  still  in  our  decay  : 
And  yet  the  wiser  mind 
Mourns  less  for  what  age  takes  away 
Than  what  it  leaves  behind. 

The  Blackbird  in  the  summer  trees, 
The  lark  upon  the  hill, 
Let  loose  their  carols  when  they  pleas^e, 
Are  quiet  when  the}'  will. 

With  nature  never  do  they  wage 
A  foolish  strife  ;  they  see 
A  happy  youth,  and  their  old  age 
Is  beautiful  and  free  ! 

But  we  are  pressed  by  heavy  laws  ; 
And  often,  glad  no  more. 
We  wear  a  face  of  joy,  because  | 

We  have  been  glad  of  yore. 

If  there  is  one,  who  need  bemoan 
His  kindred  laid  in  earth, 
The  household  hearts  that  were  his  own, 
It  is  the  man  of  mirth. 

My  days,  my  Friend,  are  almost  gone, 
My  life  has  been  approved. 
And  many  love  me  ;  but  by  none 
Am  I  enough  beloved." 


109 

t>r  the  sonnet  on  Bonaparte,  page  202,  vol.  2  ;  or  finally^ 
(for  a  volume  would  scarce  suffice  to  exhaust  the  instan- 
ces,) the  last  stanza  of  the  poem  on  the  withered  Celan- 
dine, vol.  2,  p.  212. 

To  be  a  prodigal's  favourite— then,  worse  truth, 
A  miser's  pensioner— behold  our  lot  ' 
Oh  man  !  that  from  thy  fair  and  shining  youth 
Age  might  but  take  the  things,  youth  needed  not." 

Both  in  respect  of  this  and  of  the  former  excellence^ 
Mr.  Wordsworth  strikingly  resembles  Samuel  Daniel, 
one  of  the  golden  writers  of  our  golden  Elizabethian  age, 
now  most  causelessly  neglected  :  Samuel  Daniel,  whose 
diction  bears  no  mark  of  time,  no  distinction  of  age, 
which  has  been,  and  as  long  as  our  language  shall  last, 
will  be,  so  far  the  language  of  the  to-day  and  for  ever,  as 
that  it  is  more  intelligible  to  us  than  the  transitory  fash- 
ions of  our  own  particular  age.  A  similar  praise  is  due 
to  his  sentiments.  No  frequency  of  perusal  can  deprive 
them  of  their  freshness.  For  though  they  are  brought 
into  the  full  day-hght  of  every  reader's  comprehension  ; 
yet  are  they  drawn  up  from  depths  which  few  in  any  age 
are  privileged  to  visit,  into  which  few  in  any  age  have 
courage  or  inclination  to  descend.  If  Mr.  Wordsworth 
is  not  equally  with  Daniel  alike  intelligible  to  all  readers 
of  average  understanding  in  all  passages  of  his  works,  the 
comparative  difficulty  does  not  arise  from  the  greater  im- 
purity of  the  ore,  but  from  the  nature  and  uses  of  the 
metal.  A  poem  is  not  necessarily  obscure,  because 
it  does  not  aim  to  be  popular.  It  is  enough,  if  a  work  be 
perspicuous  to  those  for  whom  it  is  written,  and, 

'*  Fit  audience  find,  though  few." 

To  the  **  Ode  on  the  intimation  of  immortality  from 
recollections  of  early  childhood,"  the  poet  might  have 
prefixed  the  lines  which  Dante  addresses  to  one  of  his 
own  Canzoni — 

"  Canzon,  io  credo,  cbe  saranno  radi 
Che  tua  ragione  intendan  bene  : 
Tanto  lor  sei  faticoso  ed  alto." 
Vol.  II.  10 


110 

"  0  lyric  song,  there  will  be  few,  think  I, 
Who  may  thy  import  understand  arig-ht  : 
Thou  art  for  them  so  arduous  and  so  high  ! 

But  the  ode  was  intended  for  such  readers  only  as  ha^ 
been  accustomed  to  watch  the  flux  and  reflux  of  their  in- 
most nature,  to  venture  at  times  into  the  twilight  realms 
of  consciousness,  and  to  feel  a  deep  interest  in  modes  of 
inmost  being,  to  which  they  know  that  the  attributes  of 
time  and  space  are  inapplicable  and  alien,  but  which  yet 
cannot  be  conveyed,  save  in  simbols  of  time  and  space. 
For  such  readers  the  sense  is  sufficiently  plain,  and  they  ' 
will  be  as  little  disposed  to  charge  Mr.  Wordsworth  with 
believing  the  platonic  pre-existence  in  the  ordinary  in- 
terpretation of  the  words,  as  I  am  to  believe  that  Plato 
himself  ever  meant  or  taught  it. 

— voj  coxia  (itX-n 
■Ev5ov  £VTi  qraphpaf 
Owvavra  cruvErorcriV  CJ 
Ai  TO  rrav  tp/iTivtcoj 
Xari^fi.  Xlo(p»s  6  voK" 
— Kah5oi  (pua* 
Ma^ovTfj  5f,  Attpfoj 
•  ITa77A.iocro-ia,  xopaxf  i  u9 

'AkfavTa  ya^virov 
Aioj  TT^oj  Of  v(xa  ^£rov. 

Third  ;  (and  wherein  he  soars  far  above  Daniel  ;)  the 
sinewy  strength  and  originality  of  single  lines  and  para- 
graphs :  the  frequent  curiosa  fehcitas  of  his  diction,  of 
which  I  need  not  here  give  specimens,  having  anticipated 
them  in  a  preceding  page.  This  beauty,  and  as  emi- 
nently characteristic  of  Wordsworth's  poetry,  his  rudest 
assailants  have  felt  themselves  compelled  to  acknowledge 
and  admire. 

Fourth  ;  the  perfect  truth  of  nature  in  his  images  and 
descriptions,  as  taken  immediately  from  nature,  and  pro- 
ving a  long  and  genial  intim  icy  with  the  very  spirit 
which  £;ives  the  physiognomic  expression  to  all  the 
works  of  nature.  Like  a  green  field  reflected  in  a  calm 
and  perfectly  transparent  lake,  the  image  is  distinguished 
from  the  reality  only  by  its  greater  softness  and  lustre. 
Like  the  moisture  or  the  polish  on  a  pebble,  genius 
neither  distorts  nor  false-colours  its  objects  ;  but,  on  the 
contrary >  brings  out  many  a  vein  and  many  a  tint,  which 


Itl 

escape  the  eye  of  common  observation,  thus  raisings 
to  the  rank  of  gems  what  had  been  often  kicked  away  by 
the  hurrying  foot  of  the  traveller  on  the  dusty  high  road 
of  custom. 

Let  me  refer  to  the  whole  description  of  skating,  vol. 
I,  page  42  to  47,  especially  to  the  lines, 

*•  So  through  the  darkness  and  the  cold  we  flew, 
And  not  a  voice  was  idle  :  with  the  din 
Meanwhile  the  precipices  rang  aloud  ; 
The  leafless  trees  and  every  icy  crag 
Tinkled  like  iron  ;  while  the  distant  hills 
Into  the  tumult  sent  an  alien  sound 
Of  melanc holly,  not  unnoticed,  while  Ae  stars 
Eastward  were  sparkling  clear,  and  in  the  west 
The  orange  sky  of  evening  died  away," 

Or  to  the  poem  on  the  green  linnet,  vol.  I.  p.  244. 
What  can  be  more  accurate,  yet  more  lovely,  than  tb^ 
two  concluding  stanzas  ? 

'*  Upon  yon  tuft  of  hazel  trees, 
That  twinkle  to  the  gusty  breeze^ 
Behold  him  perched  in  ecstacies, 

Yet  seeming  still  to  hover, 
There  !    where  the  flutter  of  his  wings 
Upon  his  back  and  body  flings 
Shadows  andsuny  glimmerings 

That  cover  him  all  over. 
While  thus  before  my  eyes  he  gleam's, 
A  brother  of  the  leaves  he  seems  ; 
When  in  a  moment  forth  he  teems 

His  little  song  in  gushes  : 
As  if  it  pleased  him  to  disdain 
And  mock  the  form  when  he  did  feign 
While  he  was  dancing  with  the  train 

Of  leaves  among  the  bushes." 

Or  the  description  of  the  blue  cap,  and  of  the  noon- 
tide silence,  p.  284  ;  or  the  poem  to  the  cuckoo,  page 
299  ;  or,  lastly,  though  I  might  multiply  the  references 
to  ten  times  the  number,  to  the  poem  so  completely 
Wordsworth's,  commencing 

^*  Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower,*'  &e. 


112 

Fifth  ;  a  meditative  pathos,  a  union  of  deep  and  subtle' 
thougnt  \rith  sensibility  ;  a  sympathy  with  man  as  man  ;  ■ 
the  sympathy  indeed  of  a  contemplator,  rather  than  a  fel- 
low sufferer  or  co-mate,  (spectator  baud  particeps)  but  ofl 
a  contemplator,  from  whose  view  no  difference  of  rank 
conceals  the  sameness  of  the  nature  ;  no  injuries  of  wind 
or  weather,  of  toil,  or  even  of  ignorance,  wholly  disguise 
the  human  face  divine.  The  superscription  and  the  im- 
age of  the  Creator  still  remain  legible  to  him  under  the 
dark  lines  witb  which  guilt  or  calamity  had  cancelled  or 
cross-barred  it.  Here  the  man  and  *^y  poet  lose  an(J 
find  themselves  in  each  other,  the  one  as  glorified,  the 
latter  as  substantiated.  In  this  mikf  and  philosophic  pa- 
thos, Wordsworth  appears  to  me  without  a  compeer. 
Such  he  ts  :  so  he  writes.  See  vol.  1  page  134  to  136, 
or  that  most  affecting  composition,  the  '*  Affliction  of  Mar- 
garet— —of ,"  page   165  to  168,  w^hich  no  mother, 

and,  if  I  may  judge  by  my  own  experience,  no  parent  can 
read  without  a  tear.  Or  turn  to  that  genuine  lyric,  in 
the  former  edition,  entitled,  the  "  Mad  Mother,"  page 
174  to  178,  of  which  I  cannot  refrain  from  quoting  two  of 
the  stanzas,  both  of  them  for  their  pathos,  and  the  former 
for  the  fine  transition  in  the  two  concluding  lines  of  the 
stanza,  so  expressive  of  that  deranged  state,  in  which, 
from  the  increased  sensibility,  the  sufferer's  attention  is 
abruptly  drawn  off  by  every  trifle,  and  in  the  same  instant 
plucked  back  again  by  the  one  despotic  thought,  and 
bringing  home  with  it,  by  the  blending,  fusing  power  of 
Imagination  and  Passion,  the  alien  object  to  which  it  had 
been  so  abruptly  diverted,  no  longer  an  alien,  but  an  ally 
and  an  inmate. 

^*  Suck,  little  babe,  oh  suck  again  f 
It  cools  my  blood  ;  it  cools  my  brain  : 
Thy  lips,  I  feel  them,  baby !  they 
Draw  from  my  heart  the  pain  away. 
Oh  !   press  me  with  thy  httie  h^nd  ; 
It  loosens  something  at  my  chest ; 
About  that  tight  and  deadly  band 
1  feel  thy  little  fingers  prest. 
The  breeze  I  see  is  in  the  tree  ! 
It  comes  to  cool  my  babe  and  me." 
*'  Thy  father  cares  not  lor  my  breast,       - 
'Tis  thine,  sweet  baby,  there  to  rest* 


113 

^is  all  thine  own !— and,  if  its  hue, 
Be  changed,  that  was  so  fair  to  view, 
'Tis  fair  enough  for  thee,  my  dove  ! 
My  beauty,  little  child,  is  flown, 
But  thou  wilt  live  with  me  in  love, 
And  what  if  my  poor  cheek  be  brown  ? 
*Tis  well  for  me,  thou  can'st  not  see 
How  pale  and  wan  it  else  would  be." 

Last,  and  pre-eminently  I  challenge  for  this  poet  the 
gift  of  Imagination  in  the  highest  and  strictest  sense  of 
the  word.  In  the  play  of  ^ncy,  Wordsworth,  to  my 
feelings,  is  not  always  graceful,  and  sometimes  recondite. 
The  likeness  is  occasionally  too  strange,  or  demands  too 
peculiar  a  point  of  view,  or  is  such  as  appears  the  crea- 
ture of  predetermined  research,  rather  than  spontaneous 
presentation.  Indeed,  his  fancy  seldom  displays  itself,  as 
mere  and  unmodified  fancy.  But  in  imaginative  power, 
he  stands  nearest  of  all  modern  writers  to  Shakspeare  and 
Milton  :  and  yet  in  a  kind  perfectly  unborrowed  and  his 
own.  To  employ  his  own  words,  which  are  at  once  an 
instance  and  an  illustration,  he  does  indeed  to  all  thoughts 
and  to  all  objects — 


" ■  ■  add  the  gleam. 

The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration,  and  the  poet's  dream.'* 

I  shall  select  a  few  examples  as  most  obviously  maui- 
festing  this  faculty  ;  but  if  1  should  ever  be  fortunate 
enough  to  render  my  analysis  of  imagination,  its  origin 
and  characters,  thoroughly  intelligible  to  the  reader,  he 
will  scarcely  open  on  a  page  of  this  poet's  works  without 
recognising,  more  or  less,  the  presence  and  the  influences 
of  this  faculty. 

From  the  poem  on  the  Yew  Trees,  vol.  I.  page  30S, 
304. 

**  But  worthier  still  of  note 
Are  those  fraternal  four  of  Borrowdale, 
Joined  in  one  solemn  and  capacious  grove  : 
Huge  trunks  ! — and  each  particular  trunk  a  growCfe 

Of  intertwisted  fibres  serpentine 
Up-coiling,  and  ioveterately  convolved— 
Not  uninformed  with  phantasy,  and  looks 


114 

That  threaten  the  prophane ; — a  pillared  shade, 

Upon  whose  grassless  floor  of  red-brown  hue. 

By  sheddings  from  the  pinal  umbrag-e  tinged 

Perennially — beneath  whose  sable  roof 

Of  boughs,  as  if  for  festal  purpose  decked 

With  unrejoicing  berries,  ghostly  shapes 

May  meet  at  noontide — Fear  and  trembling  HoPE>. 

Silence  and  Foresight — Death,  the  skeleton, 

And  Time,  the  shadow — there  to  celebrate, 

As  in  a  natural  temple  scattered  o'er 

With  altars  undisturbed  of  mossy  stone, 

United  worship ;  or  in  mute  repose 
To  lie,  and  listen  to  the  mountain  flood 
Murmuring  from  Glanamara's  inmost  caves." 

The  eflFect  of  the  old  man's  figure  in  the  poem  of  Re- 
signation and  Independence,  vol.  II.  page  33. 

•'  While  he  was  talking  thus,  the  lonely  place 
The  old  man's  shape,  and  speech,  all  troubled  me: 
In  my  mind's  eye  I  seemed  to  see  him  pace 
About  the  weary  moors  continually, 
Wandering  about  alone  and  silently." 

Or  the  8th,  9th,  19th,  26th,  31st,  and  33d,  in  the  col- 
lection of  miscellaneous  sonnets — the  sonnet  on  the  sub- 
jugation of  Switzerland,  page  210,  or  the  last  ode  from 
which  I  especially  select  the  two  following  stanzas  or 
paragraphs,  page  349  to  350. 

"  Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting  : 
The  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  star 
Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 

And  cometh  from  afar. 
Not  in  entire  forgetful ness, 
And  not  in  utter  nakedress, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 
From  God  who  is  our  home  : 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy  f 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  boy ; 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows  ; 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy  ! 
The  youth  who  daily  further  from  the  east 
Must  travel,  still  is  nature's  priest, 
And  by  the  vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended  ; 
At  length  the  man  perceives  it  die  away. 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day." 


115 

And  page  352  to  354  of  the  same  ode. 

♦«  O  joy  that  in  our  embers 

Is  something  that  doth  live, 

That  nature  yet  remembers 

What  was  so  fugitive  ! 

The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 

Perpetual  benedictions  :  not  in  deed 

For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest 

Delight  and  liberty  the  simple  creed 

Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 

With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  ia  his  breast-^— 

Not  for  these  I  raise 

The  song  of  thanks  and  praise ; 

But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 

Of  sense  and  outward  things, 

Fallings  from  us,  vanishings; 

Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 

Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realizedr 

High  instincts,  before  which  our  mortal  nature 

Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised ! 

But  for  those  first  affections, 

Those  shadowy  recollections. 

Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 

Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 

Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing  ; 

Uphold  us — cherish — and  have  power  to  make 

Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 

Of  the  eternal  silence ;  truths  that  wake 
To  perish  never ; 

Which  neither  hstlessness,  nor  mad  endeavour 

Nor  man  nor  boy 

Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy 

Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy ! 

Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather, 

Though  inland  far  we  be. 

Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 

Which  brought  us  hither, 

Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither — 

And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore, 

And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore." 

And  since  it  would  be  unfair  to  conclude  with  an  ex- 
tract, which,  though  highly  characteristic,  must  yet,  from 
the  nature  of  the  thoughts  and  the  subject  be  interesting, 
or  perhaps  intelligible,  to  but  a  limited  number  of  read- 
ers, I  will  add  from  the  poet's  last  published  work  a  pas- 
sage equally  Wordsworthian  j  of  the  beauty  of  whicb^ 


116 

and  of  the  imaginative  power  displayed  therein,  there 
can  be  but  one  opinion,  and  one  feelin».  See  White 
Doe,  page  5, 


**  Fast  the  church-yard  fills ;  anon 

Look  again  and  they  are  g"one ; 

The  cluster  round  the  porch,  and  the  folk 

Who  sate  in  the  shade  of  the  prior's  oak ! 

And  scarcely  have  they  disappeared 

Ere  the  prelusive  hymn  is  heard  : — 

With  one  consent  the  people  rejoice, 

Filling  the  church  with  a  lofty  voice  ! 

They  sing  a  service  which  they  feel, 

For  'tis  the  sun-rise  of  their  zeal, 

And  faith  and  hope  are  in  their  prime 

In  great  Eliza's  golden  time." 

A  moment  ends  the  fervent  din 

And  all  is  hushed  without  and  within ; 

For  though  the  priest  more  tranquilly 

Recites  the  holy  liturgy, 

The  only  voice  which  you  can  hear 

Is  the  river  murmuring-  near. 

When  soft ! — the  dusky  trees  between 

And  down  the  path  through  the  open  green^ 

Where  is  do  living  thing  to  be  seen  ; 

And  through  yon  gateway,  where  is  found, 

Beneath  the  arch  with  ivy  bound, 

Free  entrance  to  the  church-yard  ground ; 

And  right  across  the  verdant  sod 

Towards  the  very  house  of  God  ; 

Comes  gliding  in  with  lovely  gleam, 

Comes  gliding  in  serene  and  slow. 

Soft  and  silent  as  a  dream, 

A  solitary  doe ! 

White  she  is  as  lilly  of  June, 

And  beauteous  as  the  silver  moon 

When  out  of  sight  the  clouds  are  drireu 

And  she  is  left  alone  in  heaven  ! 

Or  hke  a  ship  some  gentle  day 

In  sunshine  sailing  far  away — 

A  glittering  ship  that  hath  the  plain 

Of  ocean  for  her  own  domain 

*  -ft  it-  if-  if-  *  *         * 

"What  harmonious  pensive  changes 
Wait  upon  her  as  she  ranges 
Round  and  round  this  pile  of  state 
Overthrown  and  desolate  ? 


U7 

Kow  a  stop  or  two  her  way 
Is  throug-h  space  of  open  day, 
Where  the  enamoured  sunny  h'ght 
Brig-htens  her  that  was  so  brig'ht  ? 
Now  doth  a  dehcate  shadow  fail, 
Falls  upon  her  like  a  breath 
From  some  lofty  arch  or  wall. 
As  she  passes  underneath. 

The  following  ana!o2:y  will,!  ana  apprehensive,  appear 
dim  and  fantastic,  but  in  reading  Bartram's  Travels  I 
could  not  help  transcribing  the  following  lines  as  a  sort 
of  allegory,  or  connected  simile  and  metaphor  of  Words- 
worth's intellect  and  genius.  **  The  soil  is  a  deep,  rich, 
^'  dark  mould,  on  a  deep  stratum  of  tenacious  clay  ;  and 
**  that  on  a  foundation  of  rocks,  which  often  break  through 
*'  both  strata,  lifting  their  back  above  the  surface.  The 
**  trees  which  chiefly  grow  here  are  the  gigantic,  black 
*'  oak  ;  magnolia  magnifloria  ;  fraximus  excelsior;  pla- 
"  tane  ;  and  a  few  stately  tulip  trees."  What  Mr. 
Wordsworth  will  produce,  it  is  not  for  me  to  prophecy  : 
but  I  could  pronounce  with  the  liveliest  convictions  what 
he  is  capable  of  producing.  It  is  the  First  Genuine 
Philosophic   Poem. 

The  preceding  criticism  will  not,  I  am  aware,  avail  to 
overcome  the  prejudices  of  those  who  have  made  it  a 
business  to  attack  and  ridicule  Mr.  Wordsworth's  compo- 
sitions. 

Truth  and  prudence  might  be  imaged  as  concentric 
circles.  The  poet  may  perhaps  have  passed  beyond  the 
latter,  but  he  has  confined  himself  far  within  the  bounds 
of  the  former,  in  designating  these  critics,  as  too  petu- 
lant to  be  passive  to  a  genuine  poet,  and  too  feeble  to 
grapple  with  him ; — "  men  of  palsied  imaginations,  in 
**  whose  minds  all  healthy  action  is  languid  ; — who,  there- 
**  fore,  feel  as  the  many  direct  them,  or  with  the  many 
'*  are  greedy  after  vicious  provocatives." 

Let  not  Mr.  Wordsworth  be  charged  with  having  ex» 
pressed  himself  too  indignMutly,  till  the  wantonness  and 
the  systematic  and  malignant  perseverance  of  the  ag- 
gressions have  been  taken  into  far  consideration.  I  my- 
self heard  the  commander  in  chief  of  this  unmanly  war- 
fare make  a  boast  of  his  private  admiration  of  Words- 
worth's genius.     1  have  heard  him  declare,  that  whoeveir 


118 

came  into  his  room  would  probably  find  the  Lyrical  Bal- 
lads lying  open  on  his  table,  and  that  (speaking  exclu- 
sively of  those  written  by  Mr.  VVordsworih  himself,)  he 
could  nearly  repeat  the  whole  of  them  by  heart.  But  a 
Review,  in  order  to  be  a  saleable  article,  must  be  per- 
sonal, sharp,  and  pointed:  and,  since  then,  the  Poet  has 
made  himself,  and  with  himself  all  who  were,  or  were 
supposed  to  be,  his  friends  and  admirers,  the  object  of 
the  critic's  revenge — how  ?  by  having  spoken  of  a  work 
so  conducted  in  the  terms  which  it  deserved  !  I  once 
heard  a  clergyman  in  boots  and  buckskin  avow,  that  he 
would  cheat  his  own  father  in  a  horse.  A  moral  system 
of  a  similar  nature  seems  to  have  been  adopted  by  too 
many  anonymous  critics.  As  we  used  to  say  at  school, 
in  reviewing  they  make  being  rogues  :  and  he,  who  com- 
plains, is  to  be  laughed  at  for  his  ignorance  of  the  game. 
With  the  pen  out  of  their  hand  they  are  honourable  men. 
They  exert,  indeed,  power  (which  is  to  that  of  the  in- 
jured party  who  should  attempt  to  expose  their  glaring 
perversions  and  mis-statements,  as  twenty  to  one)  to  write 
down,  and  (where  the  author's  circumstances  permit)  to 
impoverish  the  man,  whose  learning  and  genius  they 
themselves  in  private  have  repeatedly  admitted.  They 
knowingly  strive  to  make  it  impossible  for  the  man  even 
to  publish*  any  future  work,  without  exposing  himself 
to  all  the  wretchedness  of  debt  and  embarrassment.  But 
this  is  all  in  their  vocation,  and  bating  what  they  do  in 
their  vocation,  ''  zi-ho  can  say  that  black  is  the  xvhite  of  their 
eye  .?" 

So  much  for  the  detractors  from  Wordsworth's  merits. 
On  the  other  hand,  much  as  I  might  wish  for  their  fuller 
sympathy,  I  dare  not  flatter  myself,  that  the  freedom 
with  which  I  have  declared  my  opinions  concerning  both 
his  theory  and  his  defects,  most  of  which  are  more  or 
less  connected  with  his  theory  either  as  cause  or  effect, 
will  be  satisfactory  or  pleasing  to  all  the  poet's  admirers 
and  advocates.  More  indiscriminate  than  mine  their  ad- 
miration may  be  ;  deeper  and  more  sincere  it  cannot  be. 

♦  N'otniany  montlis  ag-o,  an  eminent  bookseller  was  asked  what  he 
thou«-ht  of ?  The  answer  was,  "  I  have  heard  his  pow- 
ers very  hio-hly  spoken  of  by  some?  of  our  first-rate  men  ;  but  I  would  not 
have  a  worTv  of  hi.'^  ifany  one  would  ffivc  it  me:  for  he  is  spoken  but 
slightly  of,  or  not  at  all,'  in  the  Quarterly  Review  :  and  the  Edinburgh^  , 
you  know,  is  decided,  to  cut  him  up  !" — 


119 

But  I  hate  advanced  no  opinion  either  for  praise  or  cen- 
sure, other  than  as  texts  introductory  to  the  reasons  which 
compel  me  to  form  it.     Above  all,  I  was  fully  convinced 
that  such  a  criticism  was  not  only  wanted  ;   but  that,  if 
executed  with  adequate  ability,  it  must  conduce  in  no 
mean  degree  to  Mr.  Wordsworth's  reputation.     Uiifame 
belongs  to  another  age,    and    can  neither  be  accelerated 
or  retarded.     How  small  the  proportion  of  the  defects 
are  to  the  beauties,  I  have  repeatedly  declared  ;  and  that 
no  one  of  them  originates  in  deficiency  of  poetic  genius. 
Had  they  been  more  and  greater,  1  should  still,  as  a  friend 
to  his  literary  character  in  the  present  age,  consider  an 
analytic  display  of  them  as  pure  gain  ;  if  only  it  removed, 
as  surely  to  all  reflecting  minds  even  the  foregoing  an- 
alysis must  have  removed,  the  strange  mistake  so  slight- 
ly grounded,  j'et  so  widely  and  industriously  propagated, 
of  Mr.   Wordsworth's  turn  for  simplicity  I     1  am  not 
half  as  much  irritated  by  hearing  his  enemies  abuse  him 
for  vulgarity  of  style,  subject,  and  conception,  as    I  am 
disgusted  with  the  gilded  side  of  the  same    meaning,  as 
displayed  by  some  affected  admirers  with  whom  he  is, 
forsooth,  a  szveet,  simple  poet !  and  50  natural,  that  little 
master  Charles,  and  his  younger  sister,  are  so  charmed 
with    them,  that  they  play  at  "  Goody    Blake,"  or  at 
"  Johnny  and  Betty  Foy  !" 

Were  the  collection  of  poems  published  with  these 
biographical  sketches,  important  enough,  (which  I  am 
not  vain  enough  to  believe)  to  deserve  such  a  distinc- 
tion :    EVEN    AS    r  HAVE   DONE,   SO   WOULD  I    BE   DONE  UNTO. 

For  more  than  eighteen  months  have  the  volume  of 
Poems,  entitled  Sibylline  Leaves,  and  the  present 
volumes  up  to  this  page  been  printed,  and  ready  for 
publication.  But  ere  I  speak  of  myself  in  the  tones, 
which  are  alone  natural  to  me  under  the  circumstances 
of  late  3  ears,  I  would  fain  present  myself  to  the  Reader 
as  I  was  in  the  first  dawn  of  my  literary  life  : 

When  Hope  grew  round  me,  like  the  climbing  vine, 
And  fruits  and  foliage  not  m)'  own  seem'd  mine  ! 

For  this  purpose,  I  have  selected  from  the  letters  w  hich 
I  wrote  home  from  Germany,  those  which  appeared 
likely  to  be  most  interesting,  and  at  the  same  time  most 
pertinent  to  the  title  of  this  work. 


120 


SATYRANE's  LETTERS; 


LETTER  I. 

On  Sunday  morning,  September  16,   1798,  the  Ham- 
burg Pacqaet  set  sail  from  Yarmouth  :   and   I,   for   the 
first  time  in  my  life,  beheld  my  native  land  retiring  from 
rae.     At   the  moment  of  its  disappearance — in  all  the 
kirks,  churches,  chapels,  and  meeting-houses,   in  which 
the  greater  number,  I  hope,  of  my  countrymen  were  at 
that  time  assembled,  1  will  dare  question  whether  there 
was  one  more  ardent  prayer  offered  up  to  heaven   than 
that  which  I  then  preferred  for  my  country.   Now,  then, 
(said  I  to  a  gentleman  who  was  standing  near  me,)  we 
are  out  of  our  country.     Not  yet,  not  yet !  he  replied, 
and  pointed  to  the  sea  ;   '*  This,  too,  is  a  Briton's  coun- 
try."    This  bon  mot  gave  a  fillip  to  my  spirits,  I  rose  and 
looked  round  on  my  fellow-passengers,  who  were  all  on 
the  deck.     We  were  eighteen  in  number,  videlicet,  five 
Englishmen,  an  English  lady,  a  French  gentleman  and  his 
servant,  an  Hanoverian  and  his  servant,  a  Prussian,  a 
Swede,  two  Danes,  and  a  Mulatto  boy,  a  German  tailor 
and  his  wife  (the  smallest  couple  I  ever  beheld)  and  a 
Jew.     We  were  all  on  the  deck  ;  but  in  a  short  time  I 
observed  marks  of  dism:jy.     The  lady  retired   to    the 
cabin  in  some  confusion,  and  many  of  the  faces  round  me 
assumed  a  very  doleful  and  frog-coloured  appearance  ; 
and    within  an   hour  the  number  of  those  on  deck  was 
lessened  by  one  half.     I   was  giddy,  but  not  sick,   and 
the  giddiness  soon  went  away,  but  left   a   feverishness 
and  want  of  appetite,  which   I  attributed,  in  great  mea- 
sure, to  the  s(£Ta  mephitis  of  the  bilge-water  ;  and  it  was 
certainly  not  decreased  by  the  exportations  from    the 
cabin.     However,   I   was  well  enough  to  join  the  able- 
bodied  passengers,  one  of  whom  observed,  not  inaptly, 


121 

that  Momus  migbt  have  discovered  an  easier  way  ta  see 
a  man's  inside  than  by  placing  a  window  in  his  breast. 
He  needed  only  have  taken  a  salt-water  trip  in  a  pac- 
quet-boat. 

I  am  inclined  to  believe,  that  a  pacquet  is  far  superior  to 
a  stage-coach,  as  a  means  of  making  men  open  out  to  each 
other.  In  the  latter,  the  uniformity  of  posture  disposes  to 
dozing,  and  the  definiteness  of  the  period  at  which  the 
company  will  separate  makes  each  individual  think  more 
of  those  to  whom  he  is  going,  than  of  those  with  whom  he 
is  going.  But  at  sea,  more  curiosity  is  excited,  if  only 
on  this  account,  that  the  pleasant  or  unpleasant  qua- 
lities of  your  companions  are  of  greater  importance  to 
you,  from  the  uncertainty  how  long  you  may  be  obliged 
to  house  with  them.  Besides,  if  you  are  countrymen, 
that  now  begins  to  form  a  distinction  and  a  bond  of  bro- 
therhood ;  and,  if  of  dififerent  countries,  there  are  new 
incitements  of  conversation,  more  to  ask  and  more  to 
commanicate.  I  found  that  I  had  interested  the  Danes 
in  no  common  degree.  I  had  crept  into  the  boat  on  the 
deck  and  fallen  asleep  ;  but  was  awaked  by  one  of  them 
about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  who  told  me  that 
they  had  been  seeking  me  in  every  hole  and  corner,  and 
insisted  that  I  should  join  their  party  and  drink  with  them. 
He  talked  English  with  such  fluency,  as  left  me  wholly 
unable  to  account  for  the  singular  and  even  ludicrous  in- 
correctness with  which  he  spoke  it.  I  went,  and  found 
some  excellent  wines  and  a  desert  of  grapes  with  a  pine 
apple.  The  Danes  had  christened  me  Doctor  Theology, 
and  dressed  as  I  was  all  in  black,  with  large  shoes  and 
black  worsted  stockings,  I  might  certainly  have  passed 
very  well  for  a  Methodist  missionary.  However,  I  dis- 
claimed my  title.  What  then  may  you  be  ?  A  man  of 
fortune  ?  No  ! — A  merchant  ?  No  !  A  merchant's  travel- 
ler ?  No  ! — A  clerk  ?  No  !  un  Philosophe,  perhaps  ?  It 
was  at  that  time  in  my  life,  in  which,  of  all  possible  names 
and  characters  I  had  the  greatest  disgust  to  that  of  *'  un 
Philosophe."  But  I  was  weary  of  being  questioned,  and 
rather  than  be  nothing,  or  at  best  only  the  abstract  idea 
of  a  man,  I  submitted  by  a  bow,  even  to  the  aspersion 
implied  in  the  word  '*  un  philosophe." — The  Dane  then 
informed  me,  that  all  in  the  present  party  were  philoso.- 

VoL.  II.  U 


122 

J)hers  likewise.  Certes  we  were  not  of  the  stoic  school. 
For  we  driink  and  talked  and  sung,  till  we  talked  and 
sung  all  together  ;  and  then  we  rose,  and  danced  on  the 
deck  a  set  of  dances,  which  in  one  sense  of  the  word  at 
least,  were  very  intelligibly  and  appropriately  entitled 
reels.  The  passengers  who  hy  in  the  cabin  below,  in  all 
the  agonies  of  sea-sickness,  must  have  found  our  bac- 
chanalian merriment 


-a  tune 


Harsh  and  of  dissonant  mood  for  iheir  complaint. 

.1  thought  so  at  the  time  ;  and  (by  way,  I  suppose,  of 
suppoiting  my  newly-assumed  philosophical  character) 
I  thought  too,  how  closely  the  greater  number  of  our 
virtues  are  connected  with  the  fear  of  death,  and  how 
little  sympathy  we  bestow  on  pain,  where  there  is  no 
danger. 

The  two  Danes  were  brothers.  The  one  was  a  man 
^ith  a  clear  white  complexion,  white  hair,  and  white 
eye-brows,  looked  silly,  and  nothing  that  he  uttered  gave 
the  lie  to  his  looks.  The  other,  whom,  by  way  of  emi- 
nence, i  hare  called  the  Dane,  had  hkewise  white  hair, 
but  was  much  shorter  than  his  brother,  with  slender 
limbs,  and  a  very  thin  face  slightly  pock-fretten.  This 
man  convinced  me  of  the  justice  of  an  old  remark,  that 
many  a  faithful  portrait  in  our  novels  and  farces  has  been 
i^ashly  censured  for  an  outrageous  caricature,  or  perhaps 
nonentity.  1  had  retired  to  my  station  in  the  boat  ;  he 
came  and  seated  himself  by  my  side,  and  appeared  not  a 
little  tipsy.  He  commenced  the  conversation  in  the 
most  magnific  style,  and  as  a  sort  of  pioneering  to  his 
own  vanity,  he  flattered  me  with  such  grossness  !  The 
parasites  of  the  old  comedy  were  modest  in  the  compa- 
rison. His  language  and  accentuation  were  so  exceed- 
ingly singular,  that  1  determined,  for  once  in  my  life,  to 
take  notes  of  a  conversation.  Here  it  follows,  somewhat 
abridged  indeed,  but  in  all  other  respects  as  accurately 
as  my  memory  permitted. 

The  Dane.  Vat  imagination  !  vat  language!  vat  vast 
science  !  and  vat  eyes  !  vat  a  milk-vite  forehead  ! — O 
;'my  heafen  !   vy,  you're  a  Got  I 

Answz' R.     You  do  me  too  much  honour,  Sir^ 


123 

The  Dane.  O  me  !  if  you  should  dink  I  is  flattering 
you ! — No,  no,  no  !  I  haf  ten  tou^and  a  year — yes,  ten 
tousand  a  year — yes,  ten  tousand  pound  a  year  ♦  Veil — • 
and  vat  is  dhat  ?  a  mere  trifle  !  i  'ouldnl  gif  my  sincere 
heart  for  ten  times  dhe  money. — Yes,  you're  a  Got !  I  a 
mere  man  !  But,  my  dear  friend  1  dhink  of  me  as  a  man  ! 
Is,  is — I  ?nean  to  ask  you  now,  my  dear  friend — is  1  not 
very  eloquent?  Is  I  not  speak  [  nglish  very  fine? 

Answ.  Most  admirably  !  Believe  me.  Sir  !  1  have  sel- 
dom heard  even  a  native  talk  so  fluently 

The  Dane,  (squeezing  my  hand  with  great  vehemence,) 
My  dear  friend  !  vat  an  affection  and  fidelity  we  have  for 
each  odher  '  But  tell  me,  do  tell  me — Is  I  not,  now  and 
den,  speak  some  fault  ?  Is  t  not  in  sonae  wrong? 

Answ.  Why,  8ir,  perhaps  it  might  be  observed  by 
nice  critics  in  the  English  language,  that  you  occasionally 
use  the  word  ■'  is"  instead  of  *' am,"  In  our  best  com- 
panies we  generally  say  I  am,  and  not  I  is,  or  ise.  Ex- 
cuse me.  Sir!   it  is  a  mere  trifle. 

The  Dane.  O! — is,  is,  am,  am,  am.  Yes,  yes— I 
know,  I  know. 

Ansav.  I  am,  thou  art,  he  is,  we  are,  ye  are,  they 
are. 

The  Dane.  Yes,  ves, — I  know,  I  know — Am,  am^ 
am,  is  dbe  presens,  and  is  is  dhe  perfectum — yes,  yes — 
and  are  is  dhe  plusquam  perfectum. 

Avsw.      Aod  "  art,"  Sir  is 

The  Dane.  My  dear  friend  !  it  is  dhe  plusquam  per- 
fectum, no,  no — dhat  is  a  great  lie.  '*  Are"  is  the  p'us- 
quam  perfectum — and  ^^  art "  is  dhe  plusquam  plueper- 
fectum — {then  swinging  iny  hand  to  and  fro,  and  cocking 
his  little  bright  hazle  eyes  at  me,  that  danced  with  vanity 
and  wine)  You  see,  my  dear  friend!  that  I  too  have 
some  lehrning. 

Answ^.  Learning,  Sir  ?  Who  dares  suspect  it  ?  Who 
can  listen  to  you  for  a  minute  ;  who  can  even  look  at  you, 
■\vithout  perceiving  the  extent  of  it  ? 

The  Dane.  My  dear  friend  ! — {then,  with  a  would-be 
humble  look^  and  in  a  tone  ofv&ice  as  if  he  7vas  reason^ 
ing) — I  could  not  talk  so  of  presens  and  imperfectum, 
and  futurum  and  plusquamplue  perfectum,  and  all  dhat, 
my  dear  friend  !   without  some  lehrning  ? 


121 

Answ.  Sir  !  a  man  like  you  cannot  talk  on  any  sub* 
ject  without  discovering  the  depth  of  his  information. 

The  Daj^e,  Dhe  grammatic  Greek,  my  friend  !  ha  ! 
ha  !  ha  !  {laughing^  and  swinging  my  hand  to  and  fro^ 
— then,  with  a  sudden  transiiion  to  great  solemnity^  Now 
I  will  tell  you,  my  dear  friend  !  Dhere  did  happen  about 
me  vat  de  whole  historia  of  Denmark  record  no  instance 
about  nobody  else.  Dhe  bishop  did  ask  me  all  dhe  ques- 
tions about  all  dhe  religion  in  dhe  Latin  grammar 

Ansvv.     The  grammar,  Sir?  The  language  1  presume — 
The  Dane,     (a  little  (ffended,)    Grammar  is  language^ 
and  Jansjuage  is  grammar — 

Answ.      Ten  thousand  pardons  ! 
The  Dane.     Veil,  and  1  was  only  fourteen  years— 
Answ.     Only  fourteen  years  old  ? 
The  Dane.     No  more.     I    was  fourteen  years  old— 
and  he  asked  me  all  questions,  religion  and  philosophy, 
and  all   in  dhe   Latin  language — and  1  answered  him  all 
every  one,  my  dear  friend  !   all  in  dhe  Latin  language. 
Answ.     A  prodigy!   an  absolute  prodigy  ! 
The  Dane.     No,  no,  no  1    he  was   a   bishop,  a  great 
superintendant. 

Answ.     Yes  !   a  bishop. 

The  Dane.  A  bishop — not  a  mere  predicant,  not  a 
prediger — 

Answ.  My  dear  Sir  !  we  have  misunderstood  each 
other.  I  said  that  your  answering  in  Latin  at  so  early  an 
age,  was  a  prodigy,  that  is,  a  thing  that  is  wonderful, 
that  does  not  often  happen. 

The  Dane.  Often !  Dhere  is  not  von  instance  record- 
ed in  dhe  whole  historia  of  Denmark. 

Answ      And  since  then  Sir ? 

The  Dane.  I  was  sent  ofer  to  dhe  Vest  Indies—to 
our  island,  and  dhere  \  had  no  more  to  do  vid  books. 
No  !  no  !  I  put  my  genius  another  way — and  I  haf  made 
ten  tousand  pound  a  year.  Is  not  dhat  ghenius,  my  dear 
friend  ! — But  vat  is  money  I  I  dhink  the  poorest  man 
alive  my  equal.  Yes,  my  dear  friend  !  my  little  fortune 
is  pleasant  to  my  generous  heart,  because  I  can  do  good 
—no  man  with  so  little  a  fortune  ever  did  so  much  gene- 
rosity— no  person,  no  man  person,  no  woman  person  ever 
denies  it     But  we  are  all  Got's  children. 


12^ 

Here  tlie  Hanoverian  interrupted  bim.  and  the  other 
Dane,  the  Swede,  and  the  Prussian,  joined  us,  together 
with  a  young  Englishman  who  spoke  the  German  fluently, 
and  interpreted  to  me  many  of  the  Prussian's  jokes. 
The  Prussian  was  a  travelling  merchant,  turned  of  three- 
score, a  hale  man,  tall,  strong,  and  stout,  full  of  stories, 
gesticulations,  and  buffoonery,  with  the  soul,  as  well  aS 
the  look,  of  a  mountebank,  who,  while  he  is  making  you 
laugh,  picks  your  pocket.  Amid  all  his  droll  looks  and 
droll  gestures,  there  remained  one  look  untouched  by 
laughter  ;  and  that  one  look  was  the  true  face,  the  others 
were  but  its  mask.  The  Hanoverian  was  a  pale,  fat, 
bloated  j^oung  man,  whose  father  had  made  a  large  for- 
tune in  London,  as  an  army-contractor.  He  seemed  to 
emulate  the  manners  of  young  Englishmen  of  fortune. 
He  was  a  good-natur'd  fellow,  not  without  information  or 
literature,  but  a  most  egregious  coxconib.  He  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  attending  the  House  of  Commons,  and  had 
once  spoken,  as  he  informed  me,  with  great  applause  in 
a  debating  society.  For  this  he  appeared  to  have  quali- 
fied himself  with  laudable  industry,  for  he  was  perfect 
in  Walker's  Pronouncing  Dictionary,  and  with  an  accent 
which  forcibly  reminded  me  of  the  Scotchman  in  Rode- 
ric  Random,  who  professed  to  teach  the  English  pronun- 
ciation, he  was  constantly  deferring  to  my  superior  judg- 
ment, whether  or  no  1  had  pronounced  this  or  that  word 
with  propriety,  or  ''  the  true  delicacy."  When  he  spoke, 
though  it  were  only  half  a  dozen  sentences,  he  always 
rose  ;  for  which  )  could  detect  no  other  motive  than  his 
partiality  to  that  elegant  phrase  so  liberally  introduced 
in  the  orations  of  our  British  legislators,  ''  While  I  am 
on  my  legs."  The  Swede,  whom  for  reasons  that  will 
soon  appear,  1  shall  distinguish  by  the  name  of  "  Nobili- 
ty," was  a  strong  featured,  scurvy  faced  man,  his  com- 
plexion resembling  in  colour,  a  red  hoi  poker  bc^ginnuig 
to  cool.  He  appeared  miserably  dependent  on  the  Dane, 
but  was,  however,  incomparably,  the  best  intormed  and 
most  rational  of  the  party.  Indeed,  his  manners  and  con- 
versation discovered  him  to  be  both  a  man  of  the  world 
and  a  gentleman.  The  Jew  was  in  the  hold  ;  the  t  reach 
gentleman  wai?  lying  on  the  deck,  so  ill  that  I  could  ob- 
serve nothing  concerning  him,  except  the  afftxtionate  at- 
tentions of  his  servant  to  him.     The  poor  fellow  was  ve« 


126 

ry  sick  himself,  and  every  now  and  then  ran  to  the  side 
of  the  vessel,  still  keeping  his  eye  on  his  master,  but  re- 
turned in  a  moment  and  seated  himself  again  by  him, 
now  supporting  his  head,  now  wiping  his  forehead,  and 
talking  to  him,  all  the  while,  in  the  most  soothing  tones. 
There  had  been  a  matrimonial  squabble  of  a  very  ludi- 
crous kind  in  the  cabin,  between  the  little  German  tailor 
and  his  little  wife.  He  had  secured  two  beds,  one  for  him- 
self, and  one  for  her.  This  had  struck  the  little  woman  as 
a  very  cruel  action  ;  she  insisted  upon  their  having  but 
one,  and  assured  the  mate,  in  the  most  piteous  tones,  that 
she  was  his  lawful  wife.  The  mate  and  the  cabin  boy  de- 
cided in  her  favour,  abused  the  little  man  for  his  want  of 
tenderness  with  much  humour,  and  hoisted  him  into  the 
same  compartment  with  his  sea-sick  wife.  This  quarrel 
was  interesting  to  me,  as  it  procured  me  a  bed,  which  I 
otherwise  should  not  have  had. 

In  the  evening,  a  7  o'clock,  the  sea  rolled  higher,  and 
the  Dane,  by  means  of  the  greater  agitation,  eliminated 
enough  of  what  he  had  been  swallowing  to  make  room  for 
a  great  deal  more.  His  favourite  potation  was  sugar  and 
brandy,  i.  e.  a  very  little  warm  water  with  a  large  quan- 
tity of  brandy,  sugar,  and  nutmeg.  His  servant  boy,  a 
black-eyed  Mulatto,  had  a  good-natured  round  face,  ex- 
actly the  colour  of  the  skin  of  the  walnut-kernel.  The 
Dane  and  I  were  again  seated,  tete-a-tete,  in  the  ship's 
boat.  The  conversation,  which  was  now,  inde.ed,  rather 
an  oration  than  a  dialogue,  became  extravagant  beyond 
all  that  I  ever  hoard.  He  told  me  that  he  had  made  a 
large  fortune  in  the  island  of  Santa  Cruz,  and  was  now 
returning  to  Denmark  to  enjoy  it.  He  expatiated  on  the 
style  in  which  he  meant  to  live,  and  the  great  under- 
takinijs  which  he  proposed  to  himself  to  commence,  till 
the  brandy,  aiding  his  vanity,  and  his  vanity  and  garru- 
lity aiding  the  brandy,  he  talked  like  a  madman — en- 
treated me  to  accompany  him  to  Denmark — there  I  should 
«ee  his  influence  with  the  government,  and  he  would  in- 
troduce me  to  the  king,  &c.  &c.  Thus  he  weiU  on  dream- 
ing aloud,  and  then  passing  with  a  very  lyrical  transition 
to  the  subject  of  general  politics,  he  declaimed,  like  a 
memoer  ot  the  Corresponaing  Society,  about,  ^not  con* 
cerning,)  the  Rights  of  Man,  and  assured  me  that,  not- 
withstanding  his  fortune,  he   thought   the   poorest  man 


127 

alive  Lis  equal.  "  All  are  equal,  my  dear  friend  !  all  are 
equal  I  Ve  are  all  Got's  children.  The  poorest  man 
hat'  the  same  rights  with  me  Jack  !  Jack  1  some  more 
sugar  and  brandy.  Dhere  is  dhat  fellow  now  !  He  is  a 
a  Mulatto — but  he  is  my  equal.  That's  right,  Jack  ! 
(taking  the  sugar  and  brandy,)  Here,  you  Sir!  shake 
hands  with  dhis  gentleman!  Shake  hands  with  me,  you 
dog  !  Dhere,  dhere  ! — We  are  all  equal  my  dear  friend  ! 
Do  I  not  speak  like  Socrates,  and  Plato,  and  Cato — they 
were  all  philosophers,  my  dear  philosophe  !  all  very  great 
men  ! — and  so  was  Homer  and  Virgil — but  they  were 
poets,  yes,  yes  !  I  know  all  about  it  ! — But  what  can 
any  body  sa^  more  than  this?  we  are  all  equal,  all  Got's 
children.  I  haf  ten  tousand  a  year,  but  I  am  no  more 
than  the  meanest  man  alive.  I  haf  no  pride;  and  yet, 
my  dear  friend  I  1  can  say  do  !  and  it  is  done.  Ha  !  ha  ! 
ha !  my  dear  friend !  Now  dhere  is  dhat  gentleman, 
(pointing  io  "Nobility.")  he  is  a  Swedish  baron — you 
shall  see.  Ho  !  (calling  to  the  Swede,)  get  me,  will  you, 
a  bottle  of  wine  trom  the  cabin.  Swede. — Here,  Jack  1 
go  and  get  your  master  a  bottle  of  wine  from  the  cabin. 
Dane.  No,  no,  no  !  do  you  go  now — you  go  yourself-^ 
you  go  now  !  Szvede  Pah  ! — Dane.  Now  go  ?  Go,  I 
pray  you.     And  the  Swe:de  w^ent!  ! 

After  this  the  Dane  commenced  an  harangue  on  reli- 
gion, and  mistaking  me  for  "  un  philosophe"  in  the  con- 
tinental sense  of  the  word,  he  talked  of  Deity  in  a  decla- 
matory style,  very  much  resembling  the  devotional  rants 
of  that  rude  blunderer,  Mr.  Thomas  Paine,  in  his  Age  of 
Reason,  and  whispered  in  my  ear,  what  damned  hypocrism 
all  Jesus  Christ's  business  was.  I  dare  aver,  that  few 
men  have  less  reason  to  charge  themselves  with  indul- 
ging in  persiflage  than  myself  I  should  hate  it  if  it  were 
only  that  it  is  a  Frenchman's  vice,  and  feel  a  pride  in 
avoiding  it  because  our  own  language  is  too  honest  to 
have  a  word  to  express  it.  But  in  this  instance  the  temp- 
tation had  been  too  powerful,  and  I  have  placed  it  on 
the  list  of  my  offences.  Pericles  answered  one  of  his 
dearest  friends,  who  had  solicited  him  on  a  case  of  life 
and  death,  to  take  an  equivocal  oath  for  his  preservation  : 
Debeo  arnicis  opitulari,  sed  usqtie  ad  Deos.^     Friendship 

*  Translation.    It  behooves  me  to  side  with  my  friends,  but  onlv  as  fa^ 

as  the  god». 


128 

herself  must  place  her  last  and  boldest  step  on  this  side 
the  altar.  What  Pericles  would  not  do  to  save  a  friend's 
life,  you  may  be  assured  1  would  not  hazard,  merely  to 
mill  the  chocolate-pot  of  a  drunken  fool's  vanity  till  it 
frothed  over.  Assuming  a  serious  look,  1  professed  my- 
self a  believer,  and  sunk  at  once  an  hundred  fathoms  in 
his  good  graces.  He  retired  to  his  cabin,  and  I  wrapped 
myself  up  in  my  great  coat,  and  looked  at  the  water.  A 
beautiful  white  cloud  of  foam,  at  momently  intervals 
coursed  by  the  side  of  the  vessel  with  a  roar,  and  little 
stars  of  flame  danced  and  sparkled,  and  went  out  in  it  : 
and  every  now  and  then,  light  detachments  of  this  white 
cloud-like  foam  darted  off  from  the  vessel's  side,  each 
with  its  own  small  constellation,  over  the  sea,  and  scour- 
ed out  of  sight,  like  a  Tartar  troop  over  a  wilderness. 

It  was  cold,  the  cabin  was  at  open  war  with  my  olfac- 
tories, and  I  found  reason  to  rejoice  in  my  great  coat,  a 
weighty  high-caped,  respectable  rug,  the  collar  of  which 
turned  over,  and  played  the  part  of  a  nightcap  very 
passably.  In  looking  up  at  two  or  three  bright  stars, 
which  oscillated  with  the  motion  of  the  sails,  I  fell  asleep, 
but  was  awakened  at  one  o'clock,  Monday  morning,  by  a 
shower  of  rain.  I  found  myself  compelled  to  go  down 
into  the  cabin,  where  I  slept  very  soundly,  and  awoke 
with  a  very  good  appetite  at  breakfast  time,  my  nostrils, 
the  most  placable  of  ail  the  senses,  reconciled  to,  or,  in- 
deed, insensible  of  the  mephitis. 

Monday,  September  17th,  I  had  a  long  conversation 
with  the  Swede,  who  spoke  with  the  most  poignant  con- 
tempt of  the  Dane,  whom  he  described  as  a  fool,  purse- 
mad  ;  but  he  confirmed  the  boasts  of  the  Dane  respect- 
ing the  largeness  of  his  fortune,  which  he  had  acquired 
in  the  first  instance  as  an  advocate,  and  afterwards  as  a 
planter.  From  the  Dane,  and  from  himself,  I  collected 
that  he  was  indeed  a  Swedish  nobleman,  who  had  squan- 
dered a  fortune  that  was  never  very  large,  and  had  made 
over  his  property  to  the  Dane,  on  whom  he  was  now  ut- 
terly dependent.  He  seemed  to  suffer  very  little  pain 
from  the  Dane's  insolence.  He  was  in  high  degree  hu- 
mane and  attentive  to  the  Englisd  lady,  who  suffered 
most  fearfully,  and  for  whom  he  performed  many  little 
offices  with  a  tenderness  and  delicacy  which  seemed  to 
prove  real  goodness  of  heart.     Indeed,  his  general  man- 


129 

nei^  and  conversation  were  not  only  pleasing,  but  even 
interesting  ;  and  I  struggled  to  believe  his  insensibility, 
respecting  the  Dane,  philosophical  fortitude.  For,  though 
the  Dane  was  now  quite  sober,  his  character  oozed 
out  of  him  at  every  pore.  And  after  dinner,  when  he 
was  again  flushed  with  wine,  every  quarter  of  an  hour, 
or  perhaps  oftener,  he  would  shout  out  to  the  Swede, 
*'  Ho !  Nobility,  go — do  such  a  thing  !  Mr.  Nobility  !  tell 
the  gentlemen  such  a  story,  and  so  forth,"  with  an  inso- 
lence which  must  have  excited  disgust  and  detestation, 
if  his  vulgar  rants  on  the  sacred  rights  of  equality,  joined 
to  this  wild  havoc  of  general  grammar,  no  less  than  of 
the  English  language,  had  not  rendered  it  so  irresistibly 
laughable. 

At  four  o'clock,  I  observed  a  wild  duck  swimming  on  the 
waves,  a  single  soHtary  wild  duck.  It  is  not  easy  to  con« 
ceive,howinterestingathing,it  looked  in  that  round  object- 
less desert  of  waters,  I  had  associated  such  a  feeling  of 
immensity  with  the  ocean,  that  I  felt  exceedingly  disap- 
pointed, when  I  was  out  of  sight  of  all  land,  at  the  nar- 
rowness and  nearness^  as  it  were,  of  the  circle  of  the  hori- 
zon. So  little  are  images  capable  of  satisfying  the  ob- 
$cure  feelings  connected  with  words.  In  the  evening  the 
sails  were  lowered,  lest  we  should  run  foul  of  the  land» 
which  can  be  seen  only  at  a  small  distance.  At  four 
o'clock,  on  Tuesday  morning,  1  vvas  awakened  by  the  cry 
of  land  !  land  !  it  was  an  ugly  island,  rock  at  a  distance 
on  our  left,  called  Heiligeland,  well  known  to  many  pas- 
sengers from  Yarmouth  to  Hamburg,  who  have  been 
obliged,  by  stormy  weather,  to  pass  weeks  and  weeks  in 
weary  captivity  on  it,  stripped  of  all  their  money  by  the 
exhorbitant  demands  of  the  wretches  who  inhabit  it  So, 
at  least,  the  sailors  informed  me.  About  nine  o'clock 
we  saw  the  main  land,  which  seemed  scarcely  able  to 
hold  its  head  above  water,  low,  flat,  and  dreary,  with 
light-houses  and  land-marks,  which  seemed  to  give  a 
character  and  language  to  the  dreariness.  We  entered 
the  mouth  of  the  Elbe,  passing  Neu-werk  ;  though  as  yet, 
the  right  bank  only  of  the  river  was  visible  to  us.  "On 
this  1  saw  a  church,  and  thanked  God  for  my  safe  vo}^- 
age,  not  without  affectionate  thoughts  of  those  1  had  left 
in  England.  At  eleven  o'clock  on  the  same  movning,  we 
arrive^  at  Cuxhaven,  the  ship  dropped  anchor,   and  the 


130 

boat  was  hoisted  out,  to  carry  the  Hanoverian  and  a  few 
others  on  shore.  The  captain  agreed  to  take  ns,  who 
remained,  to  Hiimburii;h  for  ten  guineas,  to  which  the 
Dane  contributed  so  largely/,  that  tl»e  other  passengers 
paid  but  half  a  guinea  each.  Accordingly,  we  haled  an- 
chor, and  passed  gently  up  the  river.  At  Cuxhaven  both 
sides  of  the  river  may  be  seen  in  clear  weather ;  we 
could  now  see  the  rii^ht  bank  only.  We  passed  a  mul- 
titude of  Enghsh  traders  that  had  been  waiting  many 
weeks  for  a  wind.  In  a  short  time  both  banks  became 
viJ^ible,  both  flrU  and  evidencing  the  labour  of  human 
hands,  by  their  extreme  neatness.  On  the  left  bank  I 
saw  a  church  or  two  in  the  distance  ;  on  the  right  bank 
we  passed  by  steeple  and  windmill,  and  cottage,  and  wind- 
mill and  single  house,  windmill  and  windmill,  and  neat 
«ingle  house,  and  steeple.  These  were  the  objects,  and 
in  t\ie  succession.  1  he  shores  were  rery  green  and 
planted  with  trees  not  inelegantly.  Thirty-five  miles 
from  Cuxhaven,  the  night  came  on  us,  and  as  the  naviga- 
tion of  the  Elbe  is  perilous,  we  dropped  anchor. 

Over  what  place,  thought  I,  does  the  moon  hang  to 
your  eye,  my  dearest  friend  ?  To  me  it  hung  over  the  left 
bank  of  the  Elbe.  Close  above  the  moon  was  a  huge 
volume  of  deep  black  cloud,  while  a  very  thin  fillet  cross- 
ed the  middle  of  the  orb,  as  narrow,  and  thin,  and  black 
as  a  ribbon  of  crape.  The  long  trembling  road  of  moon- 
light, which  lay  on  the  water,  and  reached  to  the  stern  of 
our  vessel,  glimmered  dimly  and  obscurely.  We  saw 
two  or  three  lights  from  the  right  bank,  probably  from 
bed-rooms.  I  felt  the  striking  contrast  between  the  si- 
lence of  this  m  jpstic  stream,  whose  banks  are  populous 
with  men  and  women  and  children,  and  flocks  and  herds — 
between  tlie  silence  by  night  of  this  peopled  river,  and 
the  ceaseless  noise,  and  uproar,  and  loud  agitations  of 
the  desolate  solitude  of  the  ocean.  The  passengers  be- 
low had  all  retired  to  their  beds  ;  and  I  felt  the  interest 
of  this  quiet  scene  the  more  deeply,  from  the  circum- 
stance of  having  just  quitted  them.  For  the  Prussian  had 
during  the  whole  of  the  evening,  displayed  all  his  talents 
to  captivate  the  Dane,  who  had  ad  nutted  him  into  the 
train  of  his  deperid.mts.  The  young  Englishman  continu- 
ed to  interpret  the  Prussians  jokes  to  me.  They  were  all, 
without  exception,  profane    and  abominable,    but  some 


131 

sufficiently  witty,  and  a  few  inciilents,  which  he  related 
in  hi?  own  person,  were  valuable  as  illustraUng  the  in^an- 
ners  of  the  countries  in  which  tbe^-  had  tdken  uiace. 

Five  o'clock  on  VVednoslay  morning  we  ha^jled  the 
anchor,  but  were  soon  obliged  to  drop  it  ag  iin  in  conse- 
quence of  a  thick  fog,  which  our  cnplain  f r-ired  would 
continue  the  whole  (hy  :  but  al>out  nine  it  cleared  off, 
and  we  sailed  slowly  along,  clos^  hy  the  shore  of  a  very 
beautiful  island,  forty  miles  froai  Cuxh  iven,  the  wind 
continuing  slick.  This  holme  or  island  is  about  a  mile 
and  a  half  in  length,  wedge-shaped,  well  wooded,  with 
glades  of  the  liveliest  green,  and  rendered  more  inte- 
resting by  the  remarkably  neat  firm  house  on  it.  It 
seemed  made  for  retirement  without  solitude — a  place 
that  would  allure  one's  friends  while  it  precluded 
the  impertinent  calls  of  mere  visiters.  The  shores  of 
the  Elbe  now  became  more  beautiful,  with  rich  meadows 
and  trees  rimning  like  a  low  wall  along  the  river's  edge  ; 
and  peering  over  them,  neat  houses  and  (especially  oq 
the  lii^ht  bank)  a  profusion  of  steeple-spires,  white, 
black,  or  red.  An  instinctive  taste  teaches  men  to  build 
their  churches  in  flat  countries  with  spire-steeples^ 
which  as  they  cannot  be  referred  to  any  other  object, 
point  as  with  silent  linger  to  the  sky  and  stars,  and 
sometimes  when  they  reflect  the  brazen  light  of  a  rich 
though  rainy  simset,  appear  like  a  pyramid  of  flame  burn- 
ing heavenward.  I  remember  once,  and  once  only,  to 
have  seen  a  spire  in  a  narrow  valley  of  a  mountainous 
country.  The  effect  was  not  only  mean  but  ludicrous, 
and  reminded  me,  against  my  will,  of  an  extinguisher ;  the 
close  neighbourhood  of  the  high  mountain,  at  the  foot  of 
which  it  stood,  had  so  completely  dwarfed  it,  and  depriv- 
ed it  of  all  connection  with  the  sky  or  clouds.  Forty 
six  English  miles  from  Cuxhaven,  and  sixteen  from  Ham- 
burgh, the  Danish  village  Veder  ornaments  the  left  bank 
with  its  black  steeple,  and  close  by  it  the  wild  and  pas- 
toral hamlet  of  Schulau.  Hitherto,  both  the  right  and 
left  bank,  green  to  the  very  brink,  and  level  with  the 
river,  resembled  the  shores  of  a  park  canal.  The  trees 
and  houses  were  alike  low  ;  sometimes  the  low  trees 
overtopping  the  yet  lower  houses  ;  sometimes  the  low 
houses  rising  above  the  yet  lower  trees.  But  at  Schu^ 
hu  the   left  bank  rises   at  once  forty  or  fifl;y  feet,  aui 


132 


atares  on  the  river  with  its  perpendicular  fassade  of  sand, 
thinly  patched  with  tufts  of  green.  The  Elbe  continued 
to  present  a  more  and  more  lively  spectacle  from  the 
multitude  of  fishing  boats  and  the  flocks  of  sea  gulls 
wheeling  round  them,  the  clamorous  rivals  and  compan- 
ions of  the  fishermen  ;  till  we  came  to  Blankaness,  a 
most  interesting  village  scattered  amid  scattered  trees, 
over  three  hills  in  three  divisions.  Each  of  the  three 
hills  stares  upon  the  river,  with  faces  of  bare  sand  with 
which  the  boats,  with  their  bare  poles,  standing  in  files 
along  the  banks,  made  a  sort  of  fantastic  harmony.  Be- 
tween each  fassade  lies  a  green  and  woody  dell,  each 
deeper  than  the  other.  In  short,  it  is  a  large  village 
made  up  of  individual  cottages,  each  cottage  in  the  cen- 
tre of  its  own  little  wood  or  orchard,  and  each  with  its 
own  separate  path  :  a  village  with  a  labyrinth  of  paths, 
or  rather  a  neighbourhood  of  houses  !  It  is  inhabited  by 
fishermen  and  boat-makers,  the  Blankanese  boats  being 
in  great  request  through  the  whole  navigation  of  the 
Elbe.  Here  first  we  saw  the  spires  of  Hamburg,  and 
from  hence  as  far  as  Altona  the  left  bank  of  the  Elbe  is 
uncommonly  pleasing,  considered  as  the  vicinity  of  an 
industrious  and  republican  city  ;  in  that  style  of  beauty, 
or  rather  prettiness,  that  might  tempt  the  citizen  into 
the  country,  and  yet  gratify  the  taste  which  he  had  ac- 
quired in  the  town.  Summer  houses  and  Chinese  show- 
work  are  every  where  scattered  along  the  high  and 
green  banks  ;  the  boards  of  the  farm-houses  left  unplais- 
tered  and  gaily  painted  with  green  and  yellow  ;  and 
scarcely  a  tree  not  cut  into  shapes,  and  made  to  remind 
the  human  being  of  his  own  power  and  intelligence  in- 
stead of  the  wisdom  of  nature.  Still,  however,  these 
are  links  of  connection  between  town  and  country,  and 
far  better  than  the  affectation  of  tastes  and  enjoyments 
for  "which  men's  habits  have  disquahfied  them.  Pass 
them  by  on  Saturdays  and  Sundays  with  the  burgers  of 
Hamburgh  smoking  their  pipes,  the  women  and  children 
feasting  in  the  alcoves  of  box  and  yew,  and  it  be- 
comes a  nature  of  its  own.  On  Wednesday,  four  o'clock, 
we  left  the  vessel,  and  passing  with  trouble  through  the 
huge  mas«es  of  shipping  that  seemed  to  choke  the  wide 
Elbe  from  Altona  upward  we  were  at  length  landed  at 
the  Boom  House.  Hamburg. 


I 


133 

LETTER  II.      X'^o  a  Lady.) 

Ratzeburg. 

31eine  liebe  Freundin, 

See  hoTi)  natural  the  German  comes  from  me,  though 
I  have  not  yet  been  six  weeks  in  the  country  I — almost  as 
fluently  as  Enolish  from  my  neighbour  the  Amptschreiber 
(or  public  secretary)  who,  as  often  as  w^e  meet,  though 
it  shouhl  be  half  a  dozen  times  in  the  same  day,  never 
fails  to  greet  me  with — '*  *  *  ddam  your  ploot  unt  eyes, 
my  dearest  En  gland  er  !  vhee  goesit  !'"* — which  is  Certainly 
a  proof  of  great  generosity  on  his  part,  these  words 
being  hi*  whole  stock  of  English.  I  had,  however,  a 
better  reason  than  the  desire  of  displaying  my  proficien- 
cy ;  for  I  wished  to  ptit  you  in  good  humour  with  a  lan- 
guage, from  the  acquirment  of  which.  I  have  promised 
myself  much  edification,  and  the  means,  too,  of  commu^ 
nicating  a  new  pleasure  to  you  and  your  sister,  during 
our  winter  readings.  And  how  can  I  do  this  better  than 
by  pointing  out  its  gallant  attention  to  the  ladies  ?  Our 
Ensj:Hsh  affix,  ess,  is,  I  believe,  confined  either  to  words 
derived  from  the  Latin,  as  actress,  directress,  &c.  or  from 
the  French,  as  mistress,  duchess,  and  the  like.  But  the 
German,  in,  enables  us  to  designate  the  sex  in  every 
possible  relation  of  life.  Thus  the  Amptman's  lady  is 
the  Frau  Amptman??i — the  secretary's  wife  (by-the-by 
the  handsomest  woman  I  have  yet  seen  in  Germany)  is 
Die  allerliebste  Frau  Amptschreiben'n — the  colonePs 
lady,  Die  Frau  Obristm  or  colonel/m — and  even  the 
parson's  wife,  die  frau  pastonVi.  But  1  am  especially 
pleased  with  their  freundin,  which,  unlike  the  arnica  of 
the  Romans,  is  seldom  used  but  in  its  best  and  purest 
sense.  Now,  I  know  it  will  be  said,  that  a  friend  is  al- 
ready something  more  than  a  friend,  when  a  man  feels  an 
anxiety  to  express  to  himself  that  this  friend  is  a  female  ; 
but  this  I  deny — in  that  sense,  at  least,  in  which  the  ob- 
jection will  be  made.  I  would  hazard  the  impeachment 
of  heresy,  rather  than  abandon  my  belief  that  there  is  a 
sex  in  our  souls  as  well  as  in  their  perishable  garments ; 
and  he  who  does  not  feel  it,  never  truly  loved  a  sister— 
Vol.  U.  12 


131 

ilay,  IS  not  capable  even  of  loving  a  wife  as  slie  deserve:^ 
to  beloved,  if  she  indeed  be  worthy  of  thcjt  holj  name. 

Now,  I  know,  my  gentle  friend,  what  you  are  mur- 
muring to  yourself — ''  This  is  so  like  him  I  running 
away  after  the  first  bubble  that  chance  has  blown  olf 
from  the  surface  of  his  fancy  ;  when  one  is  anxious  to 
learn  where  he  is,  and  what  he  has  seen."  Well  then  ! 
that  I  am  settled  at  Ratzeburg,  with  my  motives  and  the 

particulars  of  my  journey  hither, will  inform  you. 

My  iirst  letter  to  him,  with  which,  doubtless,  he  has  edi- 
fied your  w^hole  fireside,  left  me  safely  landed  at  Hamburg, 
on  the  Elbe  Stairs,  at  the  Boom  House.  While  standing 
on  the  stairs,  I  was  amused  by  the  contents  of  the  pas- 
sage boat  which  crosses  the  river  once  or  twice  a  day 
from  Hamburg  to  Haarburg.  It  was  stowed  close  with 
all  people  of  all  nations,  in  all  sorts  of  dresses  ;  the  men 
all  with  pipes  in  their  mouths,  and  these  pipes  of  jiil 
shapes  and  fancies — straight  and  wreathed,  simple  and 
complex,  long  and  short,  cane,  clay,  porcelain,  wood,  tin, 
silver,  and  ivory  ;  most  of  them  with  silver  chains  and 
silver  bole-covers.  Pipes  and  boots  are  the  first  univer- 
^1  characteristic  of  the  male  Kam.burgers  that  would 
strike  the  eye  of  a  raw  traveller.  But  1  forget  my 
promise  of  journalizing  as  much  as  possible. — Therefore, 
Sepiemher  19th,  afternoon. — My  companion,  who,  you 
recollect,  speaks  the  French  language  with  unusual  pro- 
priety, had  formed  a  kind  of  confidential  acquaintance 
with  the  emigrant,  who  appeared  to  be  a  man  of  sense, 
and  whose  manners  were  those  of  a  perfect  gentleman. 
He  seemed  about  fifty,  or  rather  more.  Whatever  is 
unpleasant  in  French  manners  from  excess  in  the  degree, 
had  been  softened  down  by  age  or  affliction  ;  and  all  that 
is  delightful  in  the  Jcuid,  alacrity  and  delicacy  in  little 
attentions,  &c.  remained,  and  without  bustle,  gesticula- 
tion, or  disproportionate  eagerness.  His  demeanor  ex- 
hibited the  minute  philanthrophy  of  a  polished  French- 
man, tempered  by  the  sobriety  of  the  English  character, 
disunited  from  its  reserve.  There  is  something  strangely 
attractive  in  the  character  of  a  ^e/z^/e'ma/i  when  3' ou  ap[>ly 
the  word  emphatically,  and  yet  in  that  sense  of  the  term 
which  it  is  more  easy  to  feel  than  to  define.  It  neither 
includes  the  possession  of  high  moral  excellence,  nor  of 


135 

necessity  even  the  ornamental  graces  of  manner.     I  have 
now  in  my  mind's  eye,  a  person  whose  hfe  would  scarcely 
stand  scrutiny,    even  in  the  court  of  honour,  much  less, 
in  that  of  conscience  ;  and  his  manners,  if  nicely  obser- 
ved, would,  of  the  two,  excite  an  idea  of  awkwardness 
rather  than  of  elegance  ;  and  yet,  every  one  who  con- 
versed with  him,  felt  and   acknowledged   the  gentleman. 
The  secret  of  the  matter,  I  believe  to  be  this — we  feel 
the  gentlemanly  character  present  to  us,  whenever,  un- 
der all  the  circumstances  of  social  intercourse,  the  trivial 
not  less  than  the  important,  through  the  whole  detail  of 
his  manners  and  deportment,  and   with  the   ease   of  a  • 
habit,  a  person  shows  respect  to   others  in  such  a  way,-^ 
as  at  the  same  time  implies,  in  his  own  feelings,  an  ha^. 
bitual  and  assured  anticipation  of  reciprocal  respect  from  . 
them  to  himself.      In  short,   the  gentlemanly  character 
arises  out   of  the  feeling  of  Equality  acting,  as  a  Habit, 
yet  flexible  to  the  varieties  of  Rank,  and  modified  with-.. 
out  being  disturbed  or  superseded  by  them.     This  des*. 
cription  will,  perhaps,  explain  to  you  the  ground  of  one 
of  your  x)wn  remarks,   as  I  was  Englishing  to  you  the* 
interesting  dialogue  concerning  the  causes^  of  the  corrup-.' 
tion  of  eloquence.     "  What  perfect  gentlemen  these  old: 
Romans  must  have  been  1   I  was  impressed,  I  remember, 
with  the  same  feeling  at  the  time  I  was  reading  a  trans* 
lation  of  Cicero's  j)hilosophical  dialoe'^es,  and  of  his  epis- 
tolary   correspondence  :     while    in    Plitvy's    Letters    I 
seemed  to  have  a  different  feeling — he  gave  me  the  no- 
tion of  a  very  y^?ie  gentleman."     You  uttered  the  words 
as   if  you  had  felt  that  the  adjunct  had  injured  the  sub- 
stance,   and  the    increased    de^rree    altered    the   kind, 
Pliny  was  the  courtier  of  an  absolute  monarch — Cicero, 
an  aristocratic  republican.     For  this  reason  the  charac- 
ter of  gentleman,  in  the  sense  to  which  I  have  confined 
it,  is  frequent   in  England,    rare   in  France,  and   found, 
where  it  is  found,  in  age  or  k^.e  latest  period  of  manhood  ; 
while  in  Germany  the  character  is  almost  unknown.    But 
I  the  proper  antipode  of  a  gentleman  is  to  be  sought  for 
•among  the  Anglo-American  democrats. 

I  owe  this  digression,  as  an  act  of  justice,  to  this  ami- 
able Frenchman,  and  of  humiliation  for  myself  For  in 
a  little  controversy  between  us  on  the  subject  of  1^  rench 
poetry,  he  made  me   feel  my  own  ill  behaviour  by  the 


136^ 

Siilent  reproof  of  contrast,  and  when  I  afterwards  apol'o> 
gized  to  him  for  the  warmth  of  my  language,  he  answer- 
ed me  with  a  cheerful  expression  of  surprise,  and  an  im- 
mediate compliment,  which  a  gentleman  might  both  make 
wilh  dignity,  and  receive  with  pleasure.  I  was  pleased, 
therefore,  to  find  it  agreed  on,  that  we  shouki,  if  possible, 
take  lip  our  quarters  in  the  same  house.  My  friend  went 
vrith  him  in  searcii  of  an  hotel,  and  1  to  deliver  my  letters 
♦>f  recon.mendation. 

i  walked  onward  at  a  brisk  pace,  enlivened  not  so 
UJt'ch  by  any  thing  1  actually  saw,  as  by  the  confused 
sense  that  I  was  for  the  first  lime  in  my  life  on  the  con- 
tinent ii(  our  planet.  1  seemed  to  myself  like  a  liberated 
!>ird  that  had  been  hatched  in  an  aviary,  who  now  after 
his  Inst  soar  of  freedom  poises  himself  in  the  upper  air. 
Very  naturally  ]  began  to  wonder  at  all  things,  some  for 
being  so  like  and  some  for  being  so  unlike  the  things  in 
England — Dutch  women  w^th  large  umbrelfa  hats  shoot- 
ing out  half  a  yard  before  ihem,  with  a  prodigal  plump- 
ness of  petticoat  behind — the  women  of  Hamburg  with 
caps  plated  on  the  caul  with  silver  or  gold,  or  both,  bor- 
tlered  round  with  stiffened  lace,  which  stood  out  before 
Iheir  eyes,  but  not  lower,  so  that  the  eyes  sparkled 
iljrough  it — the  Hanoverian  women  with  the  fore  part  of 
ihe  head  bare,  then  a  stiff  lace  standing  up  like  a  wall 
J  erpendicular  on  the  cap,  and  the  cap  behind  tailed  with 
an  enormous  quantity  of  ribbon  which  lies  or  tosses  oh 
fhe  back: 

*'  Their  visncmies  seem'd  like  a  goodly  banner 
Spread  in  defiance  of  all  enemies." 

Spenser. 

-—The  ladies  all  in  English  dresses,  all  rouged^  and  all 
with  bad  teeth:  which  yon  notice  instantly  from  their 
contrast  to  the  almost  animaL  too  glossy  mothcr-of-pearl 
whiteness,  and  the  regularity  of  the  teeth  of  the  laughing, 
loud-talking  country-women  and  servant  girls,  who  with 
Iheir  clean  white  stockings  and  with  slippers  without 
heel-quarters,  tripped  along  the  dirty  streets,  as  if  ihey 
were  secured  by  a  charm  from  the  dirt;  with  a  lightness 
^oo,  which  surprised  me,  who  had  always  consideied  it 
as  one  of  the  annoyances  of  sleeping  in  an  Inn,  that  i 
had  to  clatter  up  stairs  ia  a  pair  of  them.     The  streets 


137 

narrow  ;  to  my  English  nose  sufSciently  offensive,  and 
explaining  at  iiist  sight  the  universal  use  of  boots  ;  with- 
out any  appropriate  path  for  the  foot-passengers;  the 
g.'^ble  enda  of  the  houses  all  towards  the  street,  some  ia 
the  ordinary  triangular  form  and  entirey  as  the  botanists 
say,  but  the  ga'eater  number  notched  and  scolloped  with 
more  than  Chinese  grotesqueness.  Above  all,  I  was 
struck  with  the  profusion  of  windows,  so  large  and  so 
many,  that  the  houses  look  all  glass.  Mr.  Pitt's  Window- 
tax,  with  its  pretty  little  additional s  s\iro\x\.\ug  out  from  it 
like  young  toadlets  on  the  back  of  a  Surinam  toad,  wouki 
cerlainly  improve  the  appeaiance  of  the  Hamburg  houses, 
uhich  have  a  slight  summer  look,  not  in  keeping  with 
tiic ir  size,  incongruous  with  the  climate,  and  precluding' 
that  feeling  of  retirement  and  self-content,  which  one 
v»  ishes  to  associate  with  a  house  in  a  noisy  city.  But  a 
conflagration  would,  I  fear,  be  the  previous  requisite  to 
the  production  ot*  any  architectural  beauty  in  Hamburg: 
for  verily  it  is  a  filthy  town.  1  moved  on  and  crossed  a 
multitude  of  ugly  bridges,  with  huge  black  deformities 
of  water  v.  heels  close  by  them.  The  water  intersects 
the  city  every  where,  and  would  have  furnished  to  the 
genius  of  Italy  tlie  capabilities  of  all  that  is  most  beauti- 
iul  and  magnificeiU  in  architecture.  It  might  have  been 
the  rival  of  Venice,  and  it  is  huddle  and  ugliness,  stench 
and  stagnation.  The  Jungfcr  Stieg  (i.  e.  young  Ladies 
Walkj  to  vhich  my  letters  directed  me,  made  an  excep- 
tion. It  is  a  w  alk  or  promenade  planted  with  treble  rows 
of  elm  trees,  which  being  yearly  pruned  and  cropped,  re- 
main slim  and  dwarf-like.  This  walk  occupies  one  side 
of  a  square  piece  of  water,  with  njany  swans  on  it  per- 
iectly  tame,  and,  moving  among  the  swans,  showy  plea- 
sure boats  with  ladies  in  them,  rowed  by  their  husbands 
r>Y  lovers    *^*-***'^-^"***- 

(Some  paragraphs  have  heeii  here  omitted.) 
Ihus  embarrassed  by  sad  and  solemn  politeness,  still 
more  than  by  broken  English,  it  sounded  like  the  voice 
of  an  old  friend  when  1  heard  tlie  emigrant's  servant 
inquijing  after  me.  lie  had  come  for  the  purpose  of 
guiding  me  to  our  hotel.  Through  streets  and  streets 
1  pressed  on  as  happy  as  a  child,  and,  I  doubt  not,  witU 
a  childish  expression  of  wonderment  in  my  busy  eyes> 
amused  by  the  wicker  waggons  with  moveable  benches. 
12* 


138 

across  them,  one  behind  the  other,  (these  were  the 
hackney  coaches  ;)  amused  by  the  sign-boards  of  the 
shops,  on  which  all  the  articles  sold  within  are  paint- 
ed,  and  that  too  very  exactly,  thou2;h  in  a  grotesque 
confusion  ;  (a  useful  substitute  for  language  in  this  great 
mart  of  nations  ;)  amused  with  the  incessant  tinkling  of 
the  shop  and  house  door  bells,  the  bell  hanging  over  each 
door,  and  struck  with  a  smalJ  iron  rod  at  every  entrance 
and  exit; — and  finally,  amused  by  looking  in  at  the  \vin- 
dows,  as  I  passed  along  ;  the  ladres  and  gentlemen  drink- 
ing coffee  or  playing  cards,  and  the  gentlemen  all  smok- 
ing. I  wished  myself  a  painter,  that  1  might  have  sent 
you  a  sketch  of  one  of  the  card  parlies.  The  long  pipe 
of  one  gentleman  rested  on  the  table,  its  bole  half  a  yard 
from  his  mouth,  fuming  like  a  censer  b)  the  fish  pool — 
the  other  gentleman,  who  was  dealing  the  cards,  and  of 
course  had  both  hands  employed,  held  his  pipe  in  his 
teeth,  which  hanging  down  between  his  knees,  smoked 
beside  his  ancles.  Hogarth  himseH'  never  drew  a  more 
ludicrous  distortion  both  of  attitude  and  physiognomy, 
than  this  effort  occasioned  ;  nor  was  there  u^anting  beside 
it  one  of  those  beautiful  female  faces  which  the  same  Ho- 
garth, in  whom  the  satyrist  never  extinguished  that  love 
of  beauty  which  belonged  to  him  as  a  poet,  so  often  and 
so  gladly  introduces  as  the  central  figure  in  a  crowd  of 
humourous  deformities,  which  figure  (such  is  the  power 
of  true  genius  !)  neither  acts,  nor  is  meant  to  act  as  a 
contrast  ;  but  diffuses  through  all^  and  over  each  of  the 
group,  a  spirit  of  reconciliation  and  human  kindness  ; 
and  even  when  the  attention  is  no  longer  consciously^  di- 
rected to  the  cause  of  this  feeling,  still  blends  its  tender- 
ness with  our  laughter:  and  thus  prevents  the  instructive 
merriment  at  the  whi/ns  of  nature,  or  the  foibles  or  hu- 
mours of  our  fellow-men,  from  degenerating  into  the*heart- 
poison  of  contempt  or  hatred. 

Our  hotel  die  wilde  man,  (the  sign  of  which  was  no 
bad  likeness  of  the  landlord,  who  had  engrafted  on  a  very 
grim  face  a  restless  grin,  that  was  at  every  man's  service, 
and  which  indeed,  like  an  actor  rehearsing  to  himself,  he 
kt-pt  playing  in  expectation  of  an  occasion  lor  it) — neither 
^ur  hotel,  I  say,  nor  its  landlord,  were  of  the  genteelest 
cla^s.  But  it  has  one  great  advantage  for  a  stranger,  by 
being  in  the  market  place,  and  the  next  neighbour  of  the 
kuge   church  of  St.  >«'icholas  :  a  church  witii  shops  and 


139 

bouses  burit  up  against  it,  out  of  which  '-^-siis  and  urarts 
its  high  massy  steeple  rises,  necklaced  near  the  top  with  a 
round  of  large  g'ilt  balls.  A  better  pole-star  couM  scarce!/ 
be  desired.  Long  shall  I  retain  the  injpression  made  on 
my  mind  by  the  awful  echo,  so  loud  and  long  and  tremu- 
lous, of  the  deep-toned  clock  within  this  church,  which 
awoke  me  at  two  in  the  morning  from  adistresstul  dream, 
occasioned,  I  believe,  by  the  leather  bed,  which  is  used 
here  instead  of  bed  clothes.  1  will  rather  carry  my 
blanket  about  with  me  like  a  wild  Indian,  than  submit  to 
thi^  abominable  custom.  Our  emigrant  acquaintance 
was,  we  found,  an  intimate  friend  of  the  celebrated  Abbe 
de  Lisle  :  and  from  the  large  fortune  which  he  possessed 
under  the  monarchy,  had  rescued  sufficient  r.ot  only  for 
independence,  but  for  respectability.  He  had  offended 
some  of  his  fellow-emigrants  in  London,  whom  he  had 
obliged  with  considerable  sums,  by  a  refusal  to  make  fur- 
ther advances,  and  in  consequence  of  their  intrigues  had 
received  an  order  to  quit  the  kingdom.  .  I  thought  it  one 
proof  of  his  innocence,  that  he  attached  no  blame  either 
to  the  alien  act,  or  to  the  minister  who  had  exerted  it 
again3t  him  ;  and  a  etill  greater,  that  he  spoke  of  London 
with  rapture,  and  of  his  favourite  niece,  who  had  married 
and  settled  in  England,  with  all  the  fervour  and  all  the- 
pride  of  a  fond  parent.  A  man  sent  by  force  out  of  a 
country,  obliged  to  sell  out  of  the  stocks  at  a  great  loss^ 
and  exiled  from  those  pleasures  and  that  style  of  society 
which  Ijabit  had  rendered  essential  to  his  happiness^ 
whose  predominant  feelings  were  yet  all  of  a  private  na- 
ture, resentment  for  friendship  outraged,  and  anguish  for 
domestic  affections  interrupted — such  a  man,  i  think,  I 
could  dare  warrant  guiltless  of  espoinage  in  any  service, 
most  of  all  in  that  of  the  present  French  Directory.  He 
spoke  with  extacy  of  Paris  under  the  monarchy:  and 
yet  the  particular  facts,  which  made  up  his  description, 
left  as  deep  a  conviction  on  my  mind,  of  French  worrh- 
fessness,  as  his  own  tale  had  done  of  emigrant  ingrati- 
tude. Since  my  arrival  in  Germany,  I  have  not  met  a 
single  person,  even  among  those  who  abhoFthe  revolution, 
that  spoke  with  favour,  or  even  charity,  of  the  French 
emigrants  Though  the  belief  of  their  influence  in  the 
origination  of  this  disastrous  war,  (from  the  horrors  of 
which,  North  Germany  deems  itself  only  reprieved,  not 
^cured)   may  have  «ome  siiare  in  the  general  aversion 


110 

ivi(i)  whioli  fiiey  nre  reii;rn\lt:(l  ;  yet  I  am  deeply  per- 
su:uied  ihat  the  ijv  git^ater  part  'i$  owing  to  their  own 
piofligacy,  ta  their  li'frachcjy  and  hard- hearted nefs  to 
each  other,  and  the  domestic  misery  or  corrupt  princi- 
ples \vhich  so  many  of  tliem  have  carried  into  the  tami- 
lies  of  their  protectors.  My  heart  dilated  with  honest 
l>ride,  as  I  recalled  to  mind  the  stern  yet  amiable  cha- 
racters of  tlie  English  patriots,  v.-iio  sought  refuge  oa 
the  Continent  at  the  restoration  !  O  let  not  our  civil  war 
under  the  first  Charles,  be  par.dlelled  with  the  French 
revolution  !  In  the  former,  the  chalice  overtloued  iVoni 
excess  of  princi[de  ;  in  the  latter,  from  the  tennentatiou 
of  the  dregs  !  The  former,  was  a  civil  war  between  the 
viitijes  ti!rl  virtnons  prejudices  of  the  two  parties  ;  the 
latter,  between  ih?  vices.  The  Venetian  glass  of  the 
French  monarcl.v  shivered  and  tlew  asunder  with  the 
working*  of  a  dcu,^'e  poison. 
K  Sept.  20th.  1  Was  introduced  to  Mr.  Kiopstock,  the 
brother  of  the  poet,  -vho  again  introduced  me  to  protes- 
sor  Ebeling,  an  intelligent  and  lively  man,  thougli  deaf  : 
«o  deaf,  indeed,  that  ic  vv^is  a  painful  eilort  to  talk  with 
hi.ai,  as  we  were  obliged  to  drop  all  our  pearls  into  a  huge 
ear-trumpet.  From  this  courteous  and  kiad-hearted  man 
of  letters,  (i  hope  the  Geimaij  liteniti  in  general  ma}'  re- 
semble this  first  specimen,)  I  lieard  a  tolerable  Italian 
jjiin,  and  an  interesting  ;xnecdote.  When  Bonaparte  was 
in  Italy,  having  been  irrilc^ted  by  some  instance  of  per- 
fidy, he  said  in  a  loud  and  vehement  tone,  in  a  public 
company — "  'tis  a  true  proverb,  gli  liuJiam  Uiili  ladroni 
(i.  e.  the  Italians  all  plvndcrcrs.)  A  Lady  had  the  courage 
to  reply,  *'  iCon  tutti  ;  ma  buona  parte."  (wot  all^  but  a 
go(jd  part,  or  Buonaparte.)  This,  I  conle:-?,  sounded  to 
/yiT/cars,  as  one  of  the  many  good  things  that  might  hacc 
6ec/z  said.  The  anecdote.i?  more  valuable  :  for  it  instan- 
ces the  ways  and  means  of  Fjench  insinuation.  liociiE 
had  received  much  iiiformatlon  concerning  the  face  of 
the  country  from  a  map  of  unusual  fulncsssand  accuracy, 
the  maker  of  which,  he  heard,  resided  at  Dusseldorf. 
At  the  storming  of  Dusseldorf  by  the  French  a^m3^ 
Iloche  previously  ordered,  that  the  house  and  property 
of  this  man  should  be  preserved,  and  entrusted  the  per- 
formance of  the  order  to  an  oflicer  on  whose  troop  he  could 
rely.  Finding  afterwards  that  the  man  had  escaped  bc,- 
/ore  Ihe  storming  coaimenccuj  lloche  exclaimed.  '*  Hk 


i 


141 

had  no  reason  to  llee  !  it  is  for  such  men,  not  ogaitust' 
them,  that  the  French  nation  makes  war.  and  consents  lo 
shed  the  blood  of  its  children."  You  remember  Milton'e 
sonnet — 

*'  T^ie  great  Emathian  conqueror  bid  spare 
The  house  of  Pindiirus,  when  temple  and  lower 
Went  to  the  ground" 

Now,  though  the  Dusseldorf  map-maker  may  stand  in  the 
same  relation  to  the  Theban  bard,  as  the  snail  that  marks 
its  path  by  lines  of  film  on  the  whII  it  crteps  over,  to  the 
eagle  that  soars  sunward,  and  beats  the  temj^est  with  its 
wings  ;  it  does  not  therefore  follow,  that  the  Jacobin  of 
France  may  not  be  as  valiant  a  general  and  as  good  a  po- 
litician, as  the  madman  of  Macedon. 

From  Professor  Ebeling's,  Mr.  Klopstock  accompanied 
my  friend  and  me  to  his  own  house,  where  I  saw  a  tine 
bust  of  his  brother.  There  was  a  solemn  and  heavy 
greatness  in  his  countenance,  which  corresponded  to  mf 
preconceptions  of  his  style  and  genius.  I  saw  there, 
likewise,  a  very  fine  portrait  of  Lessing,  whose  works 
are  at  present  the  chief  object  of  my  admiration.  Flis 
eyes  were  uncommonly  like  mine  ;  if  any  thing,  rather 
larger  and  more  prominent.  But  the  lower  part  of  his 
face  and  his  nose — O  what  an  exquisite  expression  of  ele- 
gance and  sensibihty  I — There  appeared  no  depth, 
weight,  or  comprehensiveness,  in  the  forehead. — The 
whole  face  seemed  to  say,  that  Lessing  was  a  m?n  of 
quick  and  voluptuous  feelings  ;  of  an  active,  but  light 
fancy  ;  acute  ;  yet  acute  not  in  the  observdion  of  actual 
life,  but  in  the  arrangements  and  management  of  the  ideal 
w  orld,  i.  e.  in  taste  and  iu  metaphysics.  1  assure  you, 
that  I  wrote  these  very  words  in  my  memoran(hnn  book, 
with  the  portrait  before  my  eyes,  and  when  I  knew  ro- 
thing  of  Lessing  but  his  name,  and  that  he  was  a  Gcrmaa 
writer  of  eminence. 

We  consumed  two  hours  and  more  over  a  bad  dinner, 
at  the  table  d'Hote.  *'  Patience  at  a  Ger/non  orduwry, 
smiling  at  tlme.''^  The  Germans  aie  the  worst  cooks  in 
Europe.  There  is  placed  for  every  two  persons  a  bottle-^ 
of  common  wine — Rhenish  and  Claret  rdternately  ;  bat 
in  the  houses  of  the  opulent,  during. tlie  many  and  long 
ijitervals  of  the  dicner,  the  servants  hand  rcuod  glassei^. 


H-2 

of  richer  wines.  At  the  Lord  of  Culpin's  they  came  \n 
this    order.       Bnrgnndy — Madeira — Port — Frontiniac — ^ 

Pacchiarctti Old  Hock Mountain Champagne 

Hock  again — Bishop,  and  lastly,  Punch.  A  tolerahle 
quantum,  rnethinks  !  The  last  dish  at  the  ordinary,  viz. 
Slices  of  roast  pork,  (for  all  the  larger  dishes  are  hrought 
in,  cut  up,  and  first  handed  round,  and  then  set  on  the 
table)  with  stewed  prunes  and  other  sweet  fruits,  and  this 
followed  by  cheese  and  butter,  with  plates  of  apples, 
reminded  nie  of  Shakespeare,*  and  Shakespeare  put  it 
in  my  head  to  go  to  the  French  comedy. 

:i(-      'M-      -fi- 

Bless  me  I  Why  it  is  worse  than  our  modern  English 
plays  !  The  first  act  informed  me,  that  a  court  martial 
is  to  be  held  on  a  Count  Vatron,.  who  had  drawn  his 
sword  on  the  Colonel,  his  brother-in-law.  The  oJTicers 
plead  in  his  behalf — in  vain  I — His  wife,  the  Colonel's 
sister,  pleads  with  most  tempestuous  agonies — in  vain  ! 
She  falls  into  hysterics  and  fliints  away,  to  the  dropping 
of  the  inner  curtain  1  In  the  second  act  sentence  of  death 
is  passed  on  the  Count — his  wife,  as  frantic  and  hysteri- 
cal as  before  :  more  so  (good  industrious  creature  !)  she 
could  not  be.  The  third  and  last  act,  the  wife  still  fran- 
tic, very  frantic  indeed  !  the  soldiers  just  about  to  fire, 
the  handkerchief  actually  dropped,  when  reprieve  !  re- 
prieve is  heard  from  behind  the  scenes  :  and  in  comes 
Prince  somebody,  pardons  the  Count,  and  the  wife  is  still 
frantic,  only  with  joy  ;  that  was  all  ! 

O  dear  lady  !  this  is  one  of  the  cases,  in  which  laugh- 
ter is  followed  by  melancholy  :  for  such  is  the  Jdnd  of 
drama  which  is  now  substituted  every  where  for  Shak- 
speare  and  Racine.  You  well  know,  that  1  offer  violence 
to  my  own  feelings  in  joining  these  names.  But,  how- 
ever meanly  I  may  think  of  the  French  serious  drama, 
even  in  ks  mort  perfect  epecimens  ;  and  with  whatever 
right  I  may  complain  of  its  perpetual  falsification  of  the 
language,  and  of  the  connections  and  transitions  of  thought, 
which  Nature  has  appropriated  to  states  of  passion  ; 
still,  however,  the  French  tragedies  are  consistent  works 
of  art,  and  the  osffpring    of  great  intellectual   power. 

*  **  Slender.  I  br^jiscd  my  shin  \wUh  plajm^  witli  sword  and  daera'er 
Ibr  a  dish  of  stevvod  prunes,  aiid  by  my  troth  T  cannot  abide  the  smell  of 
hot  meat  sincr-."  So  a^ain ;  Emns.  '*  I  will  Laake  an  ead  of  my  diuni?r  r 
there's   pippl  is  nnd  cheese  yei  to  ccme.*' 


I 


113 

l^'reservuig  a  fitness  in  the  parts,  and  a  harmony  in  the 
whole,  they  form  a  nature  of  their  own,  though  a  false 
nature.  Slill  tliey  excite  the  minds  of  the  spectators  to 
active  ti^onght,  to  a  striving  after  ideal  excellence.  The 
soul  is  not  stupified  into  mere  sensations,  hy  a  worthless 
sympathy  with  oar  own  ordinary  sulTerings,  or  an  empty 
curiosity  for  the  surprising:,  undignified  hy  the  language, 
or  the  situations  w^hich  avve  and  delight  tlie  imagination. 
What,  (I  would  ask  of  the  crowd,  iiiat  press  forward  to 
the  pantomimic  tnigedies  and  weeping  comedies  of  Kot- 
zebue  and  his  imitators,)  what  are  you  seeking  ?  Is  it 
comedy  ?  But  in  the  comedy  of  Shakespeare  and  Moliere, 
the  more  accurate  my  knowledge,  and  the  more  pro- 
foundly I  think,  the  greater  is  the  satisfaction  that  min- 
gles witii  my  laughter.  For  though  the  qualities  which 
these  writers  ])ourtray  are  ludicrous  indeed,  either  from 
the  kind  or  the  excess,  and  exquisitely  ludicrous,  yet  are 
they  the  natural  growth  of  the  human  mind,  and  such 
as,  with  more  or  less  change  in  the  drapery,  i  can  apply 
to  my  own  heart,  or,  at  least,  to  whole  classes  of  my 
fellow-creatures.  Plow  often  are  not  the  morajist  and 
the  metaphysician  obliged  for  the  hnppiest  illustrations  of 
general  truths,  and  the  subordinate  laws  of  human  thought 
and  action,  to  quotations  not  only  from  the  tragic  charac- 
ters, but  equally  from  the  Jacques,  Falstaff,  and  even 
from  the  fools  and  clowns  of  Shakspeare,  or  lYom  the 
Miser,  Hypochondriast,  and  Hypocrite,  of  Moliere!  Say 
not,  that  I  am  recommending  abstractions  :  for  these 
class-characteristics,  which  constitute  the  instructiveness 
of  a  character,  are  so  modified  and  particularized  in  each 
person  of  the  Shaksperian  Drama,  that  life  itself  docs 
not  excite  more  distinctly  that  sense  of  individuality 
which  belongs  to  real  existence.  Paradoxical  as  it  may 
sound,  one  of  the  essential  properties  of  geometry  is  not 
less  essential  to  dramatic  excellence,  and  (if  1  may  men- 
tion his  name  without  pedantry  to  a  lady)  Aristotle  has 
liccordingly  required  of  the  poet  an  involution  of  the  uni- 
versal in  the  individual.  The  chief  diierences  are, 
that  in  geometry  it  is  the  universal  truth  itself,  wl»ich  is 
'uppermost  in  the  consciousness,  in  Poetry  the  individual 
form  in  which  the  truth  is  clothed.  With  the  Ancients, 
and  not  less  with  the  elder  dramatists  of  Engliind  and 
France,  both  comedy  and  tragedy  were  considered  as 
kinds  of  poetry.    They  neither  sought  m  comedy  to  make 


141 

m  hutrh  merely,  m\:ch  less  to  m^ike  us  Irjgh  by  wry 
fires,  accidents  of  jir^on,  slana;  phrases  for  the  day,  or 
the  clothin;^  of  common-plice  morals  in  metaphors, 
drawn  from  the  shops  or  mechanic  occupations  of  their 
characters  ;  nor  did  they  condescend  in  tragedy  to  whee- 
dle away  the  applause  of  the  spectators,  by  representing 
before  th-Mn  fic-similies  of  their  own  mean  selves  in  all 
their  ex'istinc^  meanness,  or  to  work  on  their  shi2:^ish 
sympathies  by  a  p.uhos  not  a  whit  more  respectable  than 
the  maudlin  tears  of  drunkenness.  Their  tragic  scenes 
^vere  meant  to  affect  us  indeed,  but  within  the  bounds 
of  pleasure,  and  in  union  with  the  activity  both  of  our  un- 
derstanding and  imagination.  They  wished  to  transport 
the  mind  to  a  sense  of  its  possible  greatness,  and  to  im- 
plant the  sperms  of  that  greatness  during  the  temporary' 
oblivion  of  the  woithless  ''  thing  we  are,''  and  of  the  pe- 
cuhar  state,  in  which  each  man  happens  to  be  ;  suspend- 
ing our  individual  recollections,  and  lulling  them  to  sleep 
amid  the  music  of  nobler  thoiights. 

Hold!  (methinks  1  hear  the  spokesman  of  the  crowd 
reply,  and  we  will  listen  to  him.  I  am  the  plaintiff,  and 
be  he  the  defendant.) 

Defrndant.  Hold  !  are  not  our  modern  sentimental 
plays  tilled  with  the  best  Christian  morality  ? 

Plaintiff.  Yes  !  just  as  much  of  it,  and  just  that 
part  of  it  which  you  can  exercise  without  a  single  Chris- 
tian virtue — without  a  single  sacritice  that  is  really  pain- 
ful to  you  ! — just  as  much  ^sjlatters  you,  sends  you  away 
pleased  with  your  own  hearts,  and  quite  reconciled  to 
your  vices,  which  can  never  be  thought  very  ill  of, 
when  they  keep  such  good  company,  and  walk  hand  in 
hand  with  so  much  compassion  and  generosity  ;  adula- 
tion so  loathsome,  that  you  would  spit  in  the  man's  face 
who  dared  offer  it  to  you  in  a  private  company,  unless 
3^ou  interpreted  it  as  insulting  irony,  you  appropriate 
with  infinite  satisfaction,  when  you  share  the  garbage 
with  the  whole  stye,  and  gobble  it  ou;t  of  a  common 
trough.  No  Caesar  must  pace  your  boards — no  Antony, 
no  royal  Dane,  no  Orestes,  no  Andromache  ! — 

D.  No  ;  or  as  few  of  them  as  pos-ible.  What  has  a 
plain  citizen  of  London,  or  Hamburg,  to  do  with  your 
kings  and  queens,  and  your  old  school-boy  Pagan  heroes  ? 
Besides,  every  body  knows  the  stories :  and  what  curiosity 
cfkn  we  fee! -* 


us 

F.  What,  Sir,  not  for  the  manner  ?  not  for  the  delight- 
ful language  of  the  poet  ?  not  for  the  situations,  the  ac- 
tion and  reaction  of  the  passions  ? 

D.  You  are  hasty,  Sir  !  the  only  curiosity,  we 
feel,  is  in  the  story  :  and  how  can  we  be  anxious  con- 
cerning the  end  of  a  play,  or  be  surprized  by  it,  when 
we  know  how  it  will  turn  out  ? 

P.  Your  pardon,  for  having  interrupted  you  !  we  now 
understand  e^ch  other.  You  seek,  then,  in  a  tragedy, 
which  wise  men  of  old  held  for  the  highest  effort  of  hu- 
man genius,  the  same  gratification  as  that  you  receive 
from  a  new  novel,  the  last  German  romance,  and  other 
dainties  of  the  day,  which  canhe  enjoyed  but  once.  If 
you  carry  these  feehngs  to  the  sister  art  of  Painting,  IVli- 
chael  Angelo's  Sestine  Chapel,  and  the  Scripture  Gallery 
of  Raphael,  can  expect  no  favour  from  you.  You  know 
all  about  them  beforehand.  ;  and  are,  doubtless,  more  fa- 
miliar with  the  subjects  of  those  paintings  than  with  the 
tragic  tales  of  the  historic  or  heroic  ages.  There  is  a 
consistency,  therefore,  in  your  preference  of  contempo- 
rary writers  :  for  the  great  men  of  former  times,  those 
at  least  who  were  deemed  great  by  our  ancestors,  sought 
so  litle  to  gratify  this  kind  of  curiosity,  that  they  seemed 
to  have  regarded  the  siory  in  a  not  much  higher  light 
than  the  painter  regards  his  canvass  ;  as  that  o/i,  not  6y, 
which  they  were  to  display  their  appropriate  excellence^ 
No  work,  resembling  a  tale  or  romance,  can  well  show 
less  variety  of  invention  in  the  incidents,  or  less  anxiety 
in  weaving  them  toget'^er  than  the  Don  Q,uixote  of  Cer- 
vantes, Its  adiainus  feel  ihe  disposition  to  go  back  and 
re-peruKe  some  preced'h^"  chapter,  at  least  ten  times  for 
once  th.^t  they  find  ai.y  er.^erness  to  hurry  forwards  :  or 
open  the  book  on  tho^e  pHTts  which  ihey  best  recollect, 
ev-n  as  we  visit  those  frier^ds  oftenent  whom  we  love 
most,  and  with  whose  cbar?\crers  and  actions  we  are  the 
most  intim-diely  e«  ouDinted.  In  the  divine  Ariosto,  (as 
hi?:  rountrYmcii  call  this,  their  darling  poet)  I  question 
whether  there  be  e  single  tale  of  his  own  invention,  or 
the  ek-ments  of  which,  ^ere  not  familiar  to  the  readers 
of*'  old  romance."  I  will  pass, by  the  ancient  Greeks, 
who  thou2-ht  it  even  necessary  to  the  fable  of  a  tragedy, 
that  its  sobstance  should  be  previously  known.  That 
there  had  been  at  least  fifty  tragedies  with  the  same  title. 

Vol*  !I.  13 


116 

tvould  be  one  of  the  motives  which  determined  Sopho- 
cles and  Euripedes,  in  the  choice  of  Electra  as  a  sub- 
ject.    But  Milton— 

D.  Aye  Milton,  indeed  !  but  do  not  Dr.  Johnson,  and 
other  great  men  tell  us,  that  nobody  now  reads  Milton 
but  as  a  task  ? 

P.  So  much  the  worse  for  them,  of  whom  this  can  be 
truly  said  !  Bat  why  then  do  you  pretend  to  admire 
Skakspeare  ?  The  greater  part,  if  not  all,  of  his  dramas 
were,  as  fiir  as  the  names  and  the  main  incidents  are  con- 
corned,  already  stock  plays.  All  the  stories,  at  least,  on 
v.hich  they  are  built,  pre-existed  in  the  chronicles,  bal- 
lads, or  translations  of  contemporary  or  preceding  English 
writers.  WI13,  I  repeat,  do  you  pretend  to  admire 
Shakspeare  ?  Is  it,  perhaps,  that  you  only  prete7id  io  ad- 
mire  him  ?  However,  as  once  for  all,  you  have  dismissed 
the  v/ell-known  events  and  personages  of  history,  or  the 
epic  muse,  what  have  you  taken  in  their  stead  ?  Whom 
lias  your  tragic  muse  armed  with  her  bowl  and  dagger  ? 
the  sentimental  muse,  I  should  have  said,  whom  you  have 
seated  in  the  throne  of  tragedy  ?  What  heroes  has  she 
reared  on  her  buskins  ? 

D.  O  !  our  good  friends  and  next-door-neighbours-^- 
honest  tradesmen,  valiant  tars,  high-spirited  half-pay  offi- 
cers, philanthropic  Jews,  virtuous  courtezans,  tender- 
liearted  braziers,  and  sentimental  rat-catchers  I  (a  little 
l)luff  or  so,  but  all  our  very  generous,  tender-hearted 
characters  are  a  little  rude  or  misanthropic,  and  all  our 
misanthropes  very  tender-hearted.) 

P.  But  I  pray  you,  friend,  in  what  actions,  great  or 
interesting,  can  such  men  be  engaged  ? 

D.  They  give  away  a  great  deal  of  money  ;  find  rich 
dowries  for  young  men  and  maidens,  who  have  all  other 
good  qualities  ;  they  browbeat  lords,  baronets,  and  jus- 
tices of  the  peace,  (for  they  are  as  bold  as  Hector  !) — 
they  rescue  stage-coaches  at  the  instant  they  are  falling 
down  precipices  ;  carry  away  infants  in  the  sight  of  op- 
posing armies  ;  and  some  of  our  performers  act  a  muscu- 
lar able-bodied  man  to  such  perfection,  that  our  dramatic 
poets,  who  always  have  the  actoi-s  in  their  eye,  seldom 
fail  to  make  their  favourite  male  character  as  strong  as 
8umpson.  And  then  they  take  such  prodigious  leaps  !  ! 
And  what  is  done  on  the  stage,  is  more  striking  even 
than  what  is  acted.     I  once  remember  sfrch  a  deafening 


147 


explosion,  that  I  could  not  hear  a  word  of  the  play  for 
half  an  act  after  it  ;  and  a  little  real  gunpowder  being 
set  fire  to  at  the  same  time,  and  «melt  by  all  the  specta- 
tors, the  naturalness  of  the  l^cene  was  quite  astonishing  ! 

P.  But  how  ban  you  connect  with  such  men  and  such 
Actions  that  dependence  of  thousands  on  the  fate  of  one, 
Which  gives  so  lofty  an  interest  to  the  personages  of 
Shakspeare,  and  the  Greek  Tragedians  ?  How  can  you 
connect  with  them  that  sublimest  of  all  feelings,  the  power 
of  destiny  and  the  controlling  might  of  heaven,  which 
seems  to  elevate  the  characters  which  sink  beneath  its 
irresistible  blow  ? 

D.  O  mere  fancies  !  We  seek  and  find  on  the  pre- 
sent stage  our  own  wants  and  passions,  our  own  vexatious? , 
losses,  and  embarrassments. 

P.  It  i?  your  poor  own  pettyfogging  nature  then,  which 
you  desire  to  have  represented  before  you  ?  not  human 
nature  in  its  height  and  vigour  ?  But  surely  you  might 
find  the  former,  with  all  its  jo^'S  and  sorrows,  more  con- 
veniently in  your  own  houses  and  parishes. 

D.  True  !  but  here  comes  a  dilference.  Fortune  is 
blind,  but  the  poet  has  his  eyes  open,  and  is  besides  a? 
complaisant  as  fortune  is  capricious.  He  makes  every  thing 
turn  out  exactly  as  we  would  wish  it.  He  gratifies  us 
by  representing  those  as  hateful  or  contemptible  whom 
we  hate  and  wish  to  despise. 

P.  [aside)  That  is,  he  gratifies  your  envy  by  libelling* 
your  superiors. 

D.  He  makes  all  those  precise  moralists,  who  affect 
to  be  better  than  their  neighbours,  turn  out  at  last  abject 
h3^pocrites,  traitors  and  hard-liearted  villains  ;  and  }our 
men  of  spiiit,  who  take  their  girl  and  their  glass  with 
equal  freedom,  prove  the  true  men  of  honour,  and  (thai 
no  part  of  the  audience  may  remain  unsatisfied)  reform 
in  the  last  scene,  and  leave  no  doubt  on  the  minds  of  the 
ladies,  that  they  will  make  most  faithful  and  excellent 
husbands  :  though  it  does  seem  a  pity,  that  they  should 
be  obliged  to  get  rid  of  quahties  which  had  made  them  so 
interesting!  Besides,  the  poor  become  rich  all  at  once  i 
and,  in  the  final  matrimonial  choice',  the  opulent  and  high- 
born  themselves  are  made  to  confess,  that  virtue  is  the 

ONLY  TRUE  NOBILITV,  AND  THAT  A  LOVELY  WOMAN  IS  A 
DOWRY  OF  HERSELF   I   ! 


148 

P.  Excellent!  But  you  have  forgotten  those  brilhant 
ilashes  of  loyalty,  those  patriotic  praises  of  the  king  and 
old  England,  which,  especially  if  conveyed  in  a  metaphor 
from  the  ship  or  the  shop,  so  often  solicit,  and  so  unfail- 
ingly receive  the  public  plaudit !  I  give  your  prudence 
credit  for  the  omission.  For  the  whole  system  of  your 
drama  is  a  moral  and  intellectual  Jaco^nam  of  the  most 
dangerous  kind,  and  those  common-place  rants  of  loyalty 
are  no  better  than  hypocra(5^  in  your  play-wrights,  and 
your  own  sympathy  with  them  a  gross  self-delusion.  For 
the  whole  secret  of  dramatic  popularity  consists  with  you, 
in  the  confusion  and  subversion  of  the  natural  order  of 
things,  their  causes  and  their  effects  ;  in  the  excitement 
of  surprise,  by  representing  the  qualities  of  liberality, 
refined  feeling,  and  a  nice  sense  of  honour,  (those  things 
rather,  which  pass  among  ycu  for  such)  in  persons  and 
in  classes  of  life  where  experience  teaches  us  least  to 
expect  them  ;  and  in  rewarding  with  all  the  sympathies? 
that  are  the  dues  of  virtue,  those  criminals  whom  law, 
reason,  and  religion,  have  excommunicated  from  our 
esteem  ! 

And  now,  good  night  !  Truly  !  I  might  have  written 
this  last  sheet  without  having  gone  to  Germany,  but  I 
fancied  myself  taikin<^*  to  you  by  your  own  fireside,  and 
can  3^ou  think  it  a  small  pleasure  to  me  to  forget,  now 
and  tlien,  that  I  am  not  there.  Besides,  you  and  rny  other 
good  friends  have  made  up  your  minds  to  me  as  1  am, 
and  from  whatever  place  I  write,  you  will  expect  that 
part  of  my  *•  Travels'^  will  consist  of  the  excursions  in 
my  own  mind. 


LETTER  III. 


Ratzeburcj. 

No  little  fish  thrown  back  again  into  the  water,  no  fly 
unimprisoned  from  a  child's  hand,  co\jld  more  buoyantly 
enjoy  its  element,  than  I  this  clean  and  peaceful  house, 
with  this  lovely  view  of  the  town,  groves,  and  lake  of 
Ratzeburg,  from  the  window  at  which  1  am  writing.  My 
spirits,  certain^,  and  my  health  I  fancied,  were  begin- 
ning to  sink  under  the  noise,  dirt,  and  unwholesome  air 


149 

of  our  Hamburg  hotel.      I  left  it  on  Sunday,   Sept.  23(1, 
with  a  letter  of  introduction  from  the  poet  Kiopstock, 
to  the  Amptman  of  Ratzeburg.     The  Amptman  received 
me  with  kindness,  and  introduced  me  to  the  worthy  pas- 
tor,  who  agreed  to  board  and  lodge  me  for  any  length  of 
time  not  less  than  a  month.     The   vehicle,    in  which  I 
took  my  place,  was  considerably  larger  than  ^n  English 
stage-coach,  to  which  it  bore  much  the  same  proportion 
and  rude  resemblance,   that  an  elephant's  ear  does  to 
the  human.     Its  top  was  composed  of  naked  boards   of 
different  colours,  and  seeming  to  have    been    parts   of 
different  wainscots.     Instead  of  windows  there  were  lea- 
thern curtains  with  a  little  eye  of  glass  in  each  :  they 
perfectly  answered  the  purpose  of  keeping  out  the  pros- 
pect,  and  letting  in  the  cold.       I  could  observe  little, 
therefore,  but   the  inns  and  farm  houses  at  which  we 
stopped.     They  were    all   alike,    except  in  size  ;  one 
great  room,  like  a  barn,  with  a  hay -loft  over  it,  the  straw 
and  hay  dangling  in  tufts  through  the  boards  which  form- 
ed   the    ceiling  of  the   room,  and  the  floor  of  the  left. 
From  this  room,  which  is  paved  like  a  street,  sometimes 
one,  sometimes  two  smaller  ones,  are  enclosed  at  one 
end.     These  are  commonly  floored.     In  the  large  room 
the  cattle,  pigs,  poultry,  men,  women,  and  children,  live 
in  amicable  community  ;   yet  there  was  an   appearance 
of  cleanliness  and  rustic  comfort.     One  of  these  houses  i 
measured.    It  was  an  hundred  feet  in  length.    The  apart- 
menls  were  taken  off  from  one  corner.     Between  these 
and  the  stalls  there  was  a  small  interspace,  and  here  the 
breadth  was  forty  eight  feet,  but  thirty-two  where  the 
stalls  were  ;  of  course,  the  stalls  were  on  each  side  eight 
feet  in  depth.     The  faces  of  the  cows,  &c.  were  turned 
towards  the  room  ;  indeed,  they  were  in  it,  so  that  they 
had   at  least  the  comfort  of  seeing  each  other's  faces. 
Stall-feeding  is  universal  in  this  part  of  Germimy,  a  prac- 
tice concerning  which  the  agriculturalist  and  the  poet  are 
likely  to  entertain  opposite  opinions — or  at  least,  to  have 
very  different  feelings.     The  wood  work  of  these  build- 
ings on  the  outside   is  left  unplastered,  as  in  old  houses 
among  us,  and  being  painted  red  and  green,  it  cuts  and 
tasselates  the  buildings  very  gayly.     From  within  three 
miles  of  Hamburg  almost  to  Molln,  w^hich  is  thirty  miles 
from  it,  the  country,  as  far  as  I  could  see  it,  was  a  dead 
13^ 


150 

flat,  only  Taried  by  woods.  At  Mollfi  it  became  more 
beautiful.  I  observed  a  small  lake  nearly  surrounded 
with  groves,  and  a  palace  in  view,  belonging  to  the  king  of 
Great  Britain,  and  inhVoited  by  the  Inspector  of  the  Fo- 
rests. We  were  nearly  the  same  time  in  travelling  the 
thirty-five  miles  from  Hamburg  to  Ratzeburg,  as  we  had 
been  in  ^oing  from  London  to  Yarmouth,  one  hundred 
and  twenty-six  miles. 

The  lake  of  Ratzeburg  runs  from  south  to  north, 
about  nine  miles  in  length,  and  varying  in  breadth  from 
three  miles  to  half  a  mile.  About  a  mile  from  the  south- 
ernmost point  it  is  divided  into  two,  of  course  very  un- 
equal parts,  by  an  island,  which  being  connected  by  a 
bridge  and  a  narrow  slip  of  land  with  the  one  shore,  and 
by  another  bridge  of  immense  length  with  the  other 
shore,  forms  a  complete  isthmus.  On  this  island  the 
town  of  Ratzeburg  is  built.  The  pastor's  house  or  vi- 
carage, together  with  the  Amptman's,  Amptschreiber's, 
and  the  church,  stands  near  the  summit  of  a  hill,  which 
slopes  down  to  the  slip  of  land  and  the  little  bridge,  from 
which,  through  a  superb  military  gate,  you  step  into  the 
island-town  of  Ratzeburg.  This  again  is  itself  a  little 
hill,  by  ascending  and  descending  which  3^ou  arrive  at 
the  long  bridge,  and  so  to  the  other  shore.  The  water 
to  the  south  of  the  town  is  called  the  Little  Lake,  which 
however^  almost  engrosses  the  beauties  of  the  whole  ; 
the  shores  being  just  often  enough  green  and  bare  to  give 
the  proper  eiTect  to  the  magnificent  groves  which  occu- 
py tse  greater  part  of  their  circumference.  From  the 
turnings,  windings,  and  indentations  of  the  shore,  the 
views  vary  almost  every  ten  steps,  and  the  whole  has  a 
sort  of  majestic  beauty,  a  feminine  grandeur.  At  the 
north  of  the  Great  Lake,  and  peeping  over  it,  I  see  the 
seven  church  towers  of  Lu^ec.  at  the  distance  of  twelve 
or  thirteen  miles,  yet  as  distinctly  as  if  they  were  not 
three.  The  only  defect  in  iiie  view  is,  thiit  Ratzeburg 
is  built  entirely  of  red  bricks,  and  all  the  houses  roofed 
with  red  tiles.  To  the  eye,  therefore,  it  presents  a 
clump  of  brick-dust  red.  Yet  this  evening,  Oct.  10th. 
twenty  minutes  past  five,  I  saw  the  town  perfectly  beau- 
tiful, and  the  whole  softened  down  into  complete  keeping, 
if  I  may  borrow  a  term  from  the  painters.  The  sky 
over  Ratzeburg  and  all  the  east,  was  a  pore  evening, 
blue,  while  over  the  west  it  was  covered  with  light 


151 

sandy  clo'ads.  Hence,  a  deep  reel  light  spread  over  the 
whole  prospect,  in  undisturbed  harmonj/  with  the  red 
town,  the  brown-red  woods,  and  the  yeilow-red  reeds  on 
the  skirts  of  the  lake.  Two  or  three  bor.ts,  with  single 
persons  paddling  them,  floated  up  and  down  in  the  rich 
light,  which  not  only  was  itself  in  harmony  with  all,  but 
brought  all  into  harmony. 

I  should  have  told  you  that  I  went  back  to  Hamburg 
on  Thursday  (Sept.  27th)  to  take  leave  of  my  {nend^ 
who  travels  southward,  and  returned  hither  on  the  Men- 
day  following.  From  Empfelde,  a  village  halfway  from 
Ratzeburg,  1  walked  to  Hamburg  through  deep  sandy 
roads  and  a  dreary  flat :  the  soil  every  where  white, 
hungry,  and  excessively  pulverized  ;  but  the  approach 
to  the  city  is  pleasing.  Light  cool  country  houses,  wiiich 
3'ou  can  look  through  and  see  the  gardens  behind  them, 
with  arbours  and  trellis  work,  and  thick  vegetable  walls, 
and  trees  in  cloisters  and  piazzas,  each  house  with  neat 
rails  before  it,  and  green  seats  within  the  rails.  Every 
object,  whether  the  gror»'th  of  nature  or  the  work  of 
man,  was  neat  and  artificial.  It  pleased  me  far  better, 
than  if  the  houses  and  gardens,  and  pleasure  fields,  had 
been  in  a  nobler  taste  ;  for  this  nobler  taste  would  have 
been  mere  apery.  The  busy,  anxious,  money-loving 
merchant  of  Hamburg  could  only  have  adopted,  he  could 
not  have  enjoyed  the  simplicity  of  nature.  The  mind 
begins  to  love  nature  by  imitating  human  conveniencies 
in  nature  ;  but  this  is  a  step  in  intellect,  though  a  lovv^  one 
— and  were  it  not  so,  yet  all  around  me  spoke  of  inno- 
cent enjoyment  and  sensitive  comforts,  and  I  entered 
with  unscrupulous  sympathy  into  the  enjoyments  and 
comforts  even  of  the  busy,  anxious,  money-loving  mer- 
chants of  Hamburg.  In  this  charitable  and  catholic  mood 
I  reached  the  vast  ramparts  of  the  city.  These  are 
huge  green  cushions,  one  rising  above  the  other,  with 
trees  growing  in  the  interspaces,  pledges  and  symbols  of 
a  long  peace.  Of  my  return  I  have  nothing  worth  com- 
municating, except  that  I  took  extra  post,  which  answers 
to  posting  in  England.  These  north  German  post-chaises 
are  uncovered  wicker  carts.  An  English  dust-cart  is 
a  piece  of  finery,  a  chef  d'oeuvre  of  mechanism,  compa- 
red with  them  ;  and  the  horses  !  a  savage  might  use  their 
ribs  instead  of  his  fingers  for  a  aumeration  table.    Wber- 


152 

ever  we  stopped  tiis  postilion  fed  his  cattle  with  the 
brown  lye  bread  of  vviiich  he  eat  himself,  all  breakfast- 
ing together,  only  the  horses  had  no  gin  to  their  water, 
and  the  postillion  no  water  to  his  gin.  Now  and  hence- 
forward for  subjects  of  more  interest  to  you,  and  to  the 
objects  in  search  of  which  I  left  you  :  namely,  the  hterati 
and  literature  of  Germany. 

Believe   me,    1   walked  with  an  impression  of  awe  on 

my  spirits,  as  VV and  myself  accompanied  Mr.  Klop- 

stock  to  the  house  of  his  brother,  the  poet,  which  stands 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  city  gate.      It  is  one 
of  a  row  of  little  common-place  summer-houses,  (for  so 
they  looked)  with  four  or  five   rows  of  young  meagre 
elm  trees  before  the  windows,  beyond  which  is  a  green, 
and    then    a  dead    llat,  intersected  with  several  roads. 
Whatever  beauty  (thought   1)  may   be  before  the  poet's 
eyes  at  present,   it  must  certiiinly  be  purely  of  his   own 
creation.      We  waited  a  few  minutes  in  a  neat  little  par- 
lour, ornamented   w^ith  the   iigures  of  two  of  the  muses 
and  with  prints,  the  subjects  of  which   were  from  Klop- 
stock's  odes.     The  poet  entered  ;  I  was  much  disappoint- 
ed in  his  countenance,  and  recognized    in   it  no  likeness 
to  the  bust.     There  was  no  comprehension  in  the  fore- 
head, no  weight  over  the   eye-brcvs,  no  expression  of 
peculiarity,  moral  or  intellectual,  on  the  eyes,  nomassive- 
ness   in  the  geneial  countenance.     He  is,  if  any  thing, 
rather  below  the  middle  size.     He  wore  Ycry  large  half- 
boots  which  his  legs  filled,  so  fearfully  were  they  swoln. 
However,  though  neither  \V— - —  nor  myself  could  dis- 
cover any  indications  of  sublimity  or   enthusiasm  ^\n   his 
physiognomy,  we  were  both  equally   impressed  wjth  his 
liveliness,  and  his  kind  and  ready  courtesy.     He  talked 
in  French  with  my  friend,  and  with  difficulty  spoke  a  few 
sentences  to  me  in  English.     His  enunciation  was  not  in 
the  least  aiTected  by  the  entire  want  of  his  upper  teeth. 
The  conversation  began  on  his  part  by  the  expression  of 
his  rapture  at  the  surrender  of  the  detachment  of  French 
troops  under  General   Humbert.     Their  proceedings  in 
Ireland  with  regard  to   the    committee   which   they   had 
appointed,   w^th    the  rest    of  their    organizing    system, 
seemed  to   have   given  the    poet  great    entertfdnment. 
He  then  declared  his  sanguine  belief  in  Nelson's  victory, 
and  anticipated  its  conlirmation  witb  a  keen  and  trium- 


153 

phant  pleasure.  His  words,  tones,  looks,  implied  ibe 
most  vehement  Anti-Gailicanism.  The  suhject  changed 
to  literature,  and  I  inquired  in  Latia  concerning  the 
History  of  German  Poetry  and  the  elder  German  Poets. 
To  my  great  astonishment  he  confessed,  that  he  knew 
very  little  on  the  suhject.  He  had  indeed  occasionally 
read  one  or  two  of  their  elder  writers,  but  not  so  as  to 
enable  him  to  speak  of  their  merits.  Professor  Ebehng-, 
he  said,  would  probably  give  me  every  information  of 
this  kind:  the  subject  had  not  particularly  excited  his 
curiosity.  He  then  talked  of  Milton  and  Glover,  and 
thought  Glover's  blank  verse  superior  to  Milton's. 
W  —  and  myself  expressed  our  surprise  :  and  my 
fri-dud  ga^e  his  definition  and  notion  of  harmonious  verse, 
that  it  consisted  (the  Enghsh  iambic  blank  verse  above 
all)  in  the  apt  arrangement  of  pauses, and  cadences,  an^ 
the  sweep  of  whole  paragraphs, 


-*'  with  many  a  winding  bout 


Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out," 

and  not  in  the  even  flow,  much  less  in  the  prominence  or 
antithetic  vigour  of  single  lines,  which  were  indeed  inju- 
rious to  the  total  effect,  except  where  the  j  were  introduced 
for  some  specific  purpose.  Klopstock  assented,  and  said 
that  he  meant  to  confine  Glover's  superiority  to  single 
lines.  He  told  us  that  he  had  read  Miiton,  in  a  prose  trans- 
lation, when  he  was  fourteen,*     I  understood   him  thus 

myself,  and  W interpreted  Kiopstock's  French  as  I 

had  already  construed  it.  He  appeared  to  know  \eTy 
little  of  Milton — or  indeed  of  our  poets  in  general.  He 
spoke  with  great  indignation  of  the  English  prose  transla- 
tion of  his  Messiah.  All  the  translations  had  been  bad, 
very  bad — but  the  English  was??o  translation—there  were 
pages  on  pages  not  in  the  ori*:in3i  ; — and  half  tl^e  origi- 
nal was  not  to  be  found  in  the  translation.     W-^ told 

him  that  I  intended  to  translate  a  (ew  of  his  odes  as  spe- 
cimens of  German  lyrics — he  then  said  to  me  in  English, 

*  This  was  accidentally  confirmed  to  me  by  an  old  German  g-entlemaa 
at  Helmstadt,  who  had  been  Klopstock's  school  and  bcd-feiiow^  Among 
otiier  boyish  anecdotes,  he  related  that  the  3  oun^  poet  set  a  particular 
Value  on  a  translation  of  the  Paradise  Lost,  and  always  slept  with  it  ua- 
(ier  his  pillow. 


154 

'^  I  wish  you  would  render  into  Ensjlish  some  select  pas- 
sages of  the  Messiah,  and  revenge  me  of  your  country- 
man !"  It  was  the  liveliest  thing  which  he  produced  in 
the  whole  conversation.  He  told  us,  that  his  first  ode 
was  fifty  years  older  than  his  last,  J  looked  at  him  with 
much  emotion — I  considered  him  as  the  venerable  father 
of  German  poetry  ;  as  a  good  man  ;  as  a  Christian  ;  se- 
venty-four years  old  ;  with  legs  enormously  swolii  \  yet 
active,  lively,  cheerful,  and  kind,  and  communicative. 
My  eyes  felt  as  if  a  tear  were  swelling  into  them.  In  the 
portrait  of  Lessing  there  was  a  toupee  perriwig,  which 
enormously  injured  the  effect  of  his  physiognomy — 
Klopstock  wore  the  same,  powdered  and  frizzled.  By 
the  bye,  old  men  ought  never  to  wear  powder — the  con- 
trast between  a  large  snow-white  wig  and  the  colour  of 
an  old  man's  skin  is  disgusting,  and  wrinkles  in  such  a 
neighbourhood  appear  only  channels  for  dirt.  It  is  an 
honour  to  poets  and  great  men  that  you  think  of  them  as 
parts  of  nature  ;  and  any  thing  of  trick  and  fashioa 
wounds  you  in  them  as  much  as  when  you  see  venerable 
yews  clipped  into  miserable  peacocks.  The  author  of 
the  Messiah  should  have  worn  his  own  grey  hair.  His 
•powder  and  perriwig  were  to  the  eye  what  Mr.  Virgil 
would  be  to  the  ear. 

Klopstock  dwelt  much  on  the  superior  power  which 
the  German  language  possessed  of  concentrating  mean- 
ing. He  said,  he  had  often  translated  parts  of  Homer 
and  Virgil,  line  by  line,  and  a  German  line  proved  al- 
ways sufficient  for  a  Greek  or  Latin  one.  In  English  you 
cannot  do  this.  I  answered,  that  in  English  we  could 
commonly  render  one  Greek  heroic  line  in  a  line  and  a 
half  of  our  common  heroic  metre,  and  I, conjectured  that 
ti»rs  line  and  a  half  would  be  found  to  contain  no  more 
syllables  than  one  German  or  Greek  hexameter.  He 
did  not  understand  me  ;*  and  I  who  wished  to  hear  his 
opinions,  not  to  correct  them,  vi-xs  glad  that  he   did  not. 

*  Klopslock's  ohsevvation  was  pa rtiy  true  and  partly  erroneous.  In 
the  literal  sense  of  his  vvord;s,  and  if  wa  confuie  the  coniparison  to  the 
average  of  space  required  fov  the  expression  of  the  sF.me  thought  in  the 
two  languar^'es,  it  is  erroneous.  I  havp  translated  some  German  hexarn- 
T'ters  into  English  hexameters,  and  find,  that  on  tlie  avera-'e,  three  lines 
Endish  will  express  four  iinrsG-^rrnan.  Tlie  reason  is  evident  :  our  lan- 
guage abounds  in  moriosvllalu  r^  and  dissyliahles.  The  German,  not  less 
ihau  the  Greek,  h  a  polysy^i'^*-''-  l^fiS^ai^xi.     But  ia  dnotlicr  point  of  view 


155 

We  now  took  onr  leave.  At  the  beginning  of  the 
French  Revolution  Kh:>pstock  wrote  odes  of  con9:at'j]a- 
tion.  He  received  some  honorary  presents  from  the 
French  Repubhc  (a  golden  crown  1  believe)  and,  like 
our  Priestly,  was  invited  to  a  seat  in  the  le^^islatnre, 
which  he  declined.  But  when  French  liberty  metamor- 
phosed herself  into  a  fury,  he  sent  back  these  presents 
with  a  palinodia,  declaring  his  abhorrence  of  their  pro- 
ceedings ;  and  since  then  he  has  been  perhaps  more  than 
enough  an  Anti-Gallican.  I  mean,  that  in  his  ji^st  con- 
tempt and  detestation  of  the  crimes  and  follies  of  the  Re- 
Tolutionists,  he  suffers  himself  to  forget  that  the  revolu- 
tion itself  is  a  process  of  the  Divine  Providence  ;  and  that 
as  the  folly  of  men  is  the  wisdom  of  God,  so  are  their  ini- 
quities instruments  of  his  goodness.  From  Klopstock's 
house  we  walked  to  the  ramparts,  discoursing  together 
on  the  poet  and  his  conversation,  till  our  attention  was 
diverted  to  the  beauty  and  singularity  of  the  sunset  r'.nd 
its  effects  on  the  objects  round  us.     There  were  woods 

€ne  remark  was  not  without  foundation.  For  the  German,  possessing  the 
same  unlimited  privilegp  of  forming-  compounds,  both  with  preposition?, 
and  with  epithets  as  l:he  Greek,  it  can  express  the  richest  single  Greek 
"word  in  a  singhi  German  one,  and  is  tlius  freed  from  tiie  necessity  of 
weak  or  ungraceful  paraphrases.  I  will  content  myself  with  one  exam- 
ple at  present,  viz.  the  use  of  the  prefixed  particles,  \er,  ser,  mf,  andiveg: 
thus,  reissen  to  rend,  verreisscn  to  rend  away,  zerreissen  to  rend  to  pieces, 
erdrtissen  to  rend  off  or  out  of  a  thijig-,  in  the  actve  ScPse  :  or  schmelzen 
to  melt — ver,  zer,  ent,  schmelzen — find  in  like  manner  throug:h  all  the 
verbs  neuter  and  active.  If  you  consider  only  how  much  we  should  feel 
the  lo*s  of  the  prefix  be,  as  in  bedvopt,  besprinkle,  besot,  especially  in 
our  poetical  lan^ua'fre,  and  then  think  that  this  sarno  mode  of  composi- 
tion IS  carried  through  all  their  simple  and  compound  prepositions,  and 
many  of  their  adverbs;  and  that  with  most  of  these  the  Germans  liave  the 
same  privileo-e  as  we  have  of  dividing-  them  from  the  verb  a.nd  placing; 
them  at  the  end  of  the  sentence  :  you  will  have  no  difficulty  in  compre- 
hending the  reality  and  the  cause  of  this  superior  power  in  the  German 
of  condcnt^inE:  meaning,  in  which  its  ^rreat  poet  exulted.  It  is  imoossible 
to  read  half  a  dozen  pages  of  VVieland  without  perceiving  that  In  this  re- 
sp.^ct  the  German  has  no  rival  but  the  Greek.  And  3  e t  I  seem  to  feel, 
tnit  concentration  or  condensation  is  not  the  happiest'mode  of  express- 
ing this  f  xcellence,  which  seemri  to  consist  not  so  much  in.  the  less  time 
requir<'d  for  conveying  an  impression,  as  in  the  unity  and  si multr-nt out- 
ness with  which  the  impression  is  conveyed.  It  tends  to  Hiakc  their 
h'Kvuapre  more  picturesque  :  it  dspicfures  ilnages  better.  We  have  ob- 
taii.f  d  this  power  in  part  by  our  compound  verbs  der  ved  from  the  Latin; 
and  the  sense  of  its  great  ('ffect  no  doubt  induced  our  Milton  both  to  the. 
use  and  the  abuse  of  Latin  derivatives.  But  still  thes3  prr  fixed  particles, 
conveying  no  sepantte  or  separable  meaning  to  the  mxeie  Engl isn  reo.de r, 
cannot  possibly  act  on  the  mind  with  the  force  or  lik^f  iiness  of  an  original 
and  ho!nogen<i)us  language  such  as  the  Germ-ru  i?,  and  besides  uie^on- 
fined  to  certain  words. 


156 

ill  the  distance.  A  rich  sandy  light  (nay,  of  a  much 
de^^l-er  coli  r  than  sandy)  lay  over  these  woods  that 
bl'coken  »d  in  the  blaze.  Over  that  part  of  the  woods 
which  lay  imuiediately  under  the  intenser  hght,  a  brassy 
mi^t  fk  iter].  The  trees  on  the  ramparts,  and  the  peo« 
pic*  inovjnr;  io  and  fro  between  them,  were  cut  or  divided 
into  equal  sei^vnents  of '^eep  shade  and  brassy  light.  Had 
the  trees,  and  the  bodies  of  the  men  and  women,  been 
divided  into  equal  se?;ments  by  a  rule  or  pair  of  com- 
passes, the  portions  could  not  have  been  more  regular. 
All  '-rise  Whs  obscure.  It  was  a  fuiry  scene  !  and  to  in- 
crease its  romantic  character,  among  the  moving  objects 
thus  divided  into  altci^nate  shade  and  brightness,  was  a 
beautiful  child,  dressed  with  the  elegant  simplicity  of  an 
English  child,  riding  on  a  stately  goat,  the  saddle,  bridle, 
and  other  accoutrements  of  which  were  in  a  high  degree' 
costly  and  splendid.  Before  I  quit  the  subject  of  Ham- 
burg, let  nie  say,  i,hat  i  remained  a  day  or  two  longer 
than  I  otherwise  should  have  done,  in  order  to  be  pre- 
sent at  the  feast  of  St.  Michael,  the  patron  saint  of  Ham- 
burg, expecting  to  see  the  civic  pomp  of  this  commercial 
Repiiblic.  I  was,  however,  di-appointed.  There  were 
no  processions,  two  or  three  sermons  were  preached  to 
two  or  three  old  women  in  two  o^-  three  churches,  and 
St.  Michael  and  hi«  patronage  wished  elsewhere  by  the 
higher  classes,  all  places  of  entertainment,  theatre,  &c. 
being  shut  up  on  this  day.  In  Hamburg,  there  seems  to 
be  no  religion  at  all  :  in  Lubec  it  is  confined  to  the  wo- 
men. The  men  seem  determined  to  be  divorced  from 
their  vviv3s  in  the  other  world,  if  they  cannot  in  this. 
Yc<  will  not  easily  conceive  a  more  singular  sight  than 
is  presented  b}'^  the  vart  a'^^ie  of  the  principal  chTirch  at 
Luber,  seen  from  the  or;j:an-loft :  for  beino:  filled  with  fe- 
male  servants  and  perr.on^^  in  the  same  class  of  life,  and 
all  their  caps  having  gold  and  sil/er  cauls,  it  appears 
like  a  nch  pavement  of  gold  and  sih  er. 

!  will  conclude  this  1-^tter  with  the  mere  transcription 

of  notes,  wh'ch  my  fiiend  ^^V made  of  his  conver- 

saii'^ns  -Tith  Klopstock,  during  the  irterviews  that  took 
place  ^ftei  my  departure.  On  these  1  shall  make  but 
one  remarlc  at  present,  and  that  will  appear  a  presump- 
tuous one,  namely,  that  Klopstock's  remarks  on  the  ve- 
nerable Sdge  of  Koenigsburg  are,  to  my  ovm  knowledge, 


157 

injurious  and  mistaken  ;  and  so  far  is  it  from  being  true^ 
that  bis  system  is  now  given  up,  that  throughout  the 
Universities  of  Germany  there  is  not  a  single  professor 
who  is  not,  either  a  Kantean,  or  a  disciple  of  Fichte, 
whose  system  is  built  on  the  Kantean,  and  pre-supposes 
its  truth  ;  or  lastly,  who,  though  an  antagonist  of  Kant 
as  to  his  theoretical  work,  has  not  embraced  wholly  or 
in  part  his  moral  system,  and  adopted  part  of  his  nomen- 
clature. *'  Klopstock  having  wished  to  see  the  Calvary 
of  Cumberland,  and  asked  what  was  thought  of  it  in 
England,  I  went  to  Remnant's  (the  English  bookseller) 
where  I  procured  the  A*ialytical  Review,  in  which  is 
contained  the  review  of  Cumberland's  Calvary.  I  re- 
membered to  have  read  there  some  specimens  of  a  blank 
verse  translation  of  the  Messiah.  I  had  mentioned  this 
to  Klopstock,  and  he  had  a  great  desire  to  ?^e  them.  J 
walked  over  to  his  house  and  put  the  book  into  his  hands. 
On  adverting  to  his  own  poem,  he  told  me  he  began  the 
.Messiah  when  he  was  seventeen  :  he  devoted  three  en- 
tire yeers  to  the  plan  without  composing  a  single  line. 
He  wjis  greatly  at  a  loss  in  what  manner  to  execute  his 
work.  There  were  no  successful  specimens  of  versifi- 
cation in  the  German  language  before  this  time.  The 
first  three  cantos  he  wrote  in  a  species  of  measured  or 
nuaierous  prose.  This,  though  done  with  much  labour 
and  some  success,  was  far  from  satisfying  him.  Fie  had 
composed  hexameters  both  Latin  and  Greek  as  a  school 
exercise,  and  there  had  been  also  in  the  German  language 
attempts  in  that  style  of  versification.  These  were  only 
of  very  moderate  merit.  One  day  he  was  struck  with 
the  idea  of  what  could  he  done  in  this  way  ;  he  kept  his 
room  a  whole  day,  even  went  without  his  dinner,  and 
lound  that  in  the  evening  he  had  written  twenty-three 
hexameters,  versifying  a  part  of  what  he  had  before 
written  in  prose.  From  that  time,  pleased  with  his  ef- 
forts, he  composed  no  more  in  prose.  To-day  he  in- 
formed me  that  he  had  finished  his  plan  before  he  read 
Milton.  He  was  enchanted  to  see  an  author  who  before 
him  had  trod  the  same  path.  This  is  a  contradiction  of 
what  he  said  before.  He  did  not  wish  to  speak  of  his 
poem  to  any  one  till  it  was  finished  ;  but  some  of  his 
friends  who  had  seen  what  he  had  finished,  tormented 
him  till  he  had  consented  to  publish  a  few  books  in  a 
Vol.  II.  14 


158 

journal.  He  was  then,  I  believe,  very  young,  about 
twenty-five.  The  rest  was  printed  at  different  periods, 
fbur  books  at  a  time.  The  reception  given  to  the  first 
specimens  was  highly  flattering.  He  was  nearly  thirty 
years  in  finishing  the  whole  poem,  but  of  these  thirty 
years  not  more  than  two  were  employed  in  the  compo- 
sition. He  only  composed  in  favourable  moments  ;  be- 
sides he  had  other  occupations.  He  values  himself 
wpon  the  plan  of  his  odes,  and  accuses  the  modern  lyrical 
writers  of  gross  deficiency  in  this  respect.  I  hud  the 
same  accusation  against  Horace  :  he  would  not  hear  of* 
it — but  waved  the  discussion*  He  called  Rousseau's 
Ode  to  Fortune  a  moral  dissertation  in  stanzas.  \  spoke 
of  Dryden's  St.  Cecilia  ;  but  he  did  not  seem  familiar  with 
our  writers.  He  wished  to  know  the  distinctions  be- 
tween our  dramatic  and  epic  blank  verse.  He  recom- 
mended me  to  read  his  Herman  before  I  read  either  the 
Messiah  or  the  odes.  He  flattered  himself  that  some 
"time  or  other  his  dramatic  poems  would  be  known  in 
England.  He  had  not  heard  of  Cowper.  He  thought 
that  Voss  in  his  translation  of  Hie  Iliad  had  done  violence 
to  the  idiom  of  the  Germans,  and  had  sacrificed  it  to  the 
Greek,  not  remembering  sufficiently  that  each  language 
has  its  particular  spirit  and  genius.  He  said,  Lessing  was 
the  first  of  their  dramatic  writers.  1  complained  of  Na- 
than as  tedious.  He  said  there  was  not  enough  of  action 
in  it,  but  that  Lessing  was  the  most  chaste  of  their  wri- 
ters. He  spoke  favourably  of  Goethe  ;  but  said,  that  his 
"  Sorrows  of  Werter"  was  his  best  work,  better  than  any 
of  his  dramas  :  he  preferred  the  first  written  to  the  rest 
of  Goethe's  dramas.  Schiller's  **  Robbers"  he  found  so 
extravagant,  that  he  could  not  read  it.  I  spoke  of  the 
scene  of  the  setting  sun.  He  did  not  know  it.  He  said 
Schiller  could  not  live.  He  thought  Don  Carlos  the  best 
of  his  dramas  ;  but  said  that  the  plot  was  inextricable. — 
It  was  evident,  he  knew  little  of  Schiller's  works  ;  in- 
deed, he  said  he  could  not  read  them.  Burgher,  he  said, 
was  a  true  poet,  and  would  hve  ;  that  Schiller,  on  the 
contrary,  must  soon  be  forgotten  ;  that  he  gave  himself 
up  to  the  imitation  of  Shakspeare,  who  often  was  extra- 
vagant, but  that  Schiller  was  ten  thousand  times  more  so. 
He  spoke  very  slightingly  of  Kotzebue,  as  an  immoral 
author  in  the  first  place,  and  next,  as  deficient  in  power. 


I 


159 

At  Vienna,  saH  he,  they  are  transported  with  him  ;  bai 
we  do  not  reckon  the  people  ot*  Vienna  either  the  wisest 
or  the  wittiest  people  of  Germany.  He  said  Wieland 
was  a  charming  author,  and  a  sovereign  master  of  his  own 
language  :  that  in  this  respect  Goethe  could  not  be  com- 
pared to  him,  or,  indeed,  could  any  body  else.  He  said 
that  his  fault  Was  to  be  fertile  to  exuberance*  I  told 
him  the  Oberon  had  just  been  translated  into  EngliJsh, 
lie  asked  me  if  I  wa:3  not  delighted  with  the  poem.  1 
answered,  that  I  thought  the  story  W-un  to  flag  about 
the  sevtjuui  cr  crr^Iith  book,  and  observed,  that  it  was 
unworthy  of  a  man  of  genius  to  make  the  interest  of  a 
long  poem  turn  entirely  upon  animal  gratification.  He 
seemed  at  first  disposed  to  excuse  this  by-saying,  that 
there  are  different  subjects  for  poetry,  and  that  poets 
are  not  willing  to  be  restricted  in  their  choice.  1  an- 
swered, that  I  thought  the  passion  of  love  as  well  suited 
to  the  purposes  of  poetry  as  any  other  passion  ;  but  that 
it  was  a  cheap  way  of  pleasing  to  ^ix  the  attention  of  the 
reader  through  a  long  poem  on  the  mere  appetite.  Well ! 
but,  said  he,  you  see  that  such  poems  please  every 
body.  I  answered,  that  it  was  the  proviace  of  a  great 
poet  to  raise  people  up  to  his  own  level,  not  to  descend 
to  theirs.  He  agreed,  and  confessed,  that  on  no  account 
whatsoever  would  he  have  written  a  work  like  the  Obe- 
ron. He  spoke  in  raptures  of  Wieland  s  style,  and 
pointed  out  the  passage  where  Retzia  is  delivered  of  her 
child,  as  exquisitely  beautiful.  1  said  that  1  did  not  per- 
ceive any  ver}^  striking  passages  ;  but  that  1  made  allow- 
ance for  the  imperfections  of  a  translation.  Of  the  thefts 
of  Wieland,  he  sail,  'hey  were  so  exquisitely  managed, 
that  the  greatest  writers  might  be  proud  to  steal  as  he 
did.  He  considered  the  books  and  fables  of  old  romance 
writers  in  the  light  of  the  ancient  mythology,  as  a  sort 
of  common  property,  from  which  a  man  was  free  to  take 
whatever  he  could  make  a  good  use  of.  An  Englishman 
had  presented  him  with  the  odes  of  CoUins,  which  he 
had  read  with  pleasure.  He  knew  little  or  nothing  of 
Gray,  except  his  Essay  in  the  church-yard.  He  com- 
plained of  the  fool  in  Lear.  1  observed,  that  he  seem- 
ed to  give  a  terrible  wildness  to  the  distress  ;  but  still 
he  complained.  He  asked  whether  it  was  not  allowed, 
that  Pope  had  written  rhyme  poetry  with  more  skill  thaa 


160 

atiy  of  our  writers.  I  said,  I  preferred  Dryden,  because 
Lis  couj)i(^ts  bad  greater  vj«nety  in  their  movement.  He 
thought  my  reason  a  good  one  ;  but  asked  whether  the 
rhyme  of  Pope  were  not  more  exact.  This  que.«^tion  I 
understood  as  applying  to  the  final  terminations,  and  ob- 
served to  him  that  J  believed  it  was  the  case,  but  that  I 
thought  it  was  easy  to  excuse  some  inaccuracy  in  the  tinal 
sounds,  if  the  general  sweep  of  the  verse  was  superior. 
f  t^hl  him  that  we  were  not  so  exact  with  regard  to  the 
final  endings  of  lines  as  the  Frcoch.  He  did  not  seen* 
to  k'^ow  that  we  made  no  distinction  between  masculine 
and  feminine  (i.  e.  single  or  double,)  rhymes  ;  at  least, 
he  put  inquiries  to  me  on  this  subject.  He  seemed  to 
ihijjk,  that  no  language  could  ever  be  so  far  formed  as 
that  it  might  not  "be  enriched  by  idioms  borrowed  from 
another  tongue.  I  said  this  was  a  very  dangerous  prac- 
tice ;  and  added,  that  I  thought  Milton  had  often  injured 
both  his  prose  and  verse  by  taking  this  liberty  too  fre- 
quently. 1  recommended  to  him  the  prose  works  of 
Dryden  as  models  of  pure  and  native  English.  1  was 
treading  upon  tender  ground,  as  I  have  reason  to  sup- 
pose that  he  has  himself  liberally  indulged  in  the  prac- 
tice. 

The  same  day  I  dined  at  Mr.  Klopstock's,  where  I  had 
the  pleasure  of  a  third  interview  with  the  poet.  We 
talked  principally  about  indifferent  things.  I  asked  him 
what  he  thought  of  Kant.  He  said  that  his  reputation 
was  much  on  the  decline  in  G»3rmany.  That  for  his  own 
p.  it  he  was  not  surprised  to  find  it  so,  as  the  works  of 
Kant  were  to  him  utterly  incomprehensible  ;  that  he  had 
often  been  pestered  by  the  Kanteans,  but  was  rarely  in 
the  practice  of  arguing  with  them.  His  custom  was  to 
produce  the  book,  open  it,  and  point  to  a  passage,  and 
beg  they  would  explain  it.  This  they  ordinarily  attempt- 
ed to  do,  by  substituting  their  own  ideas.  I  do  not  want, 
I  say,  an  explanation  of  your  own  ideas,  but  of  the  pas- 
sage which  is  before  us.  In  this  way  I  generally  bring 
4he  dispute  to  an  immediate  conclusion.  He  spoke  of 
Wolfe  as  the  first  metaphysician  they  had  in  Germany. 
Wolfe  had  followers,  but  they  could  hardly  l>e  called  a 
sect,  and  luckily  till  the  appearance  of  Kant,  about  Mteen 
years  ago,  Germany  had  not  been  pestered  by  any  sect 
of  philosophers  whatsoever,  but  that  each  maa  had  se- 


rei 

parately  pursued  his  inquiries  uncontrolled  by  the  dogv 
mas  of  a  Master.  Kant  had  appeared  ambitious  to  be  the 
founder  of  a  sect  that  he  had  succeeded,  but  that  the 
Germans  were  now  coming  to  their  senses  again.  That 
Nicolai  and  Engel  had  in  different  ways  contributed  to 
disenchant  the  nation  ;  but,  above  all,  the  incomprehensi- 
biUty  of  the  philosopher  and  his  philosophy.  He  seemed 
pleased  to  hear,  that  as  yet  Kant's  doctrines  had  not  met 
with  any  admirers  in  England — did  not  doubt  but  that  we 
had  too  much  wisdom  to  be  duped  by  a  writer,  who  set 
at  defiance  the  common  sense  and  common  understandings 
of  men.  We  talked  of  tragedy.  He  seemed  to  rate  high- 
ly, the  power  of  exciting  tears.  I  said  that  nothing  w^as 
more  easy  than  to  deluge  an  audience,  that  it  was  done 
every  day  by  the  meanest  writers." 

I  must  remind  you,  my  friend,  first,  that  these  notes, 
&c.  are  not  intended  as  specimens  of  Klopstock's  intellec- 
tual power,  or  even  *'  colloquial  prowessy^  to  judge  of 
which,  by  an  pccidental  conversation,  and  this  with 
strangers,  and  those  too  foreigners,  would  be  not  only 
unreasonable,  but  calumnious.  Secondly,  I  attribute  lit- 
tle other  interest  to  the  remarks,  than  what  is  deriv- 
ed from  the  celebrity  of  the  person  who  made  them. 
Lastly,  if  you  ask  me  whether  I  have  read  the  Messiah, 
and  what  I  think  of  it  ?  1  answer —  as  yet  the  first  four 
books  only  ;  and  as  to  my  opinion  (the  reasons  of  which, 
hereafter,)  you  may  guess  it,  from  what  I  could  not  help 
muttering  to  myself,  v/hen  the  good  pastor  this  morning 

told  me,  that  Klopstock  was  the  German  Milton ''  a 

very   German   Milton   indeed  I  !  ! ^Heaven    preserve 

you,  and 

eSr  T.  COLCRIDGK 


U^ 


162 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Quid  (^lad  prapfafione  prapmunierim  libellum,  oiia  conor  omiiern  of- 
fendiculi  iinsum  praecidere?  Neque  quicquam  addubito,  quin  ea  candidis 
omnibus  faciat  «;atis.  Quid  autem  facias  istis,  qui  vel  ob  ingeiiii  ptrtina- 
ciarr  sibi  satisfieri  nolent,  vel  stiipidiores  sint  quani  ut  satisfactioiiem  intel- 
!ig:a!it?  Nam  quern  ad  modiim  J^inionides  dixit,  Thessalos  hebetiores  esse 
quam  ut  posbint  a  se  decipi,  ita  quondam  videas  stupidiores  quam  ut  placa- 
ri  queant.  Adh'dpc,  non  mirumest,  invenire  quod  calumnietur  qui  iiinil  ali- 
ud  quferit  nisi  quod  calumaietur. 

Erasmus,  ad  Dorpium  Teologum. 


In  the  rifacciamento  of  The  Friend,  I  have  inserted 
extracts  from  the  Condones  ad  Populum,  printed,  though 
scarcely  pubhshed,  in  the  year  1795,  in  the  very  heat 
and  height  of  my  antiministerial  enthusiam  :  these  in 
proof  that  my  principles  of  politics  have  sustained  no 
change.  In  the  present  chapter,  I  have  annexed  to  my 
Letters  from  Germany,  with  particular  reference  to  that 
which  contains  a  disquisition  on  the  modern  drama,  a 
critique  on  the  Tragedy  of  Bertram,  written  within  the 
last  twelve  months  :  in  proof,  that  I  have  been  as  falsely 
charged  with  any  fickleness  in  my  principles  of  taste, — 
The  letter  was  written  to  a  friend  ;  and  the  apparent  ab- 
ruptness with  which  it  begins,  is  owing  to  the  omission  of 
the  introductory  sentences. 

You  remember,-  my  dear  Sir,  that  Mr.  Whitbread^ 
shortly  before  his  death,  proposed  to  the  assembly  sub- 
scribers of  Drury-Lane  Theatre,  that  the  concern  .should 
be  farmed  to  some  responsible  individual  under  certain 
conditions  and  limitations  ;  and  that  his  proposal  was  re* 
jected,  not  without  indignation,  as  subversive  of  the  main 
object,  for  the  attainment  of  which  the  enlightened 
and  patriotic  assemblage  of  philo-dramatists  had  been 
induced  to  risk  their  subscriptions.  Now,  this  object  was 
avowed  to  be  no  less  than  the  redemption  of  the  British. 
stage,  not  only  from  horses,  dogs,  elephants,  and  the  like 
zoological  rarities,  but  also  from  the  more  pernicious  bar- 
barisms and  Kotzebuisms  in  morals  and  taste.  Drury- 
Lane  was  to  be  restored  to  its  furmer  classical  renown  ; 
Shakspeare,  Johnson,  and  Otway,  with  the  expurgated 


163 

irif'Ses  of  Vanburgli,  Congreve,  and  Wycherly,  were;  tt> 
ha  re-inaugurated  in  their  rightful  dominion  over  British 
audiences  ;  and  the  Herculean  process  was  to  commence 
by  exterminating  the  speaking  monsters  imported  from' 
the  banks  of  the  Danube,  compared  with  which  their 
mute  relations,  the  emigrants  from  Exeter  'Change,  and 
Polito  (late  Pidcock's)  show-carts,  were  tame  and  inof- 
fensive. Could  an  heroic  project,  af  once  so  refined  and 
so  arduous,  be  consistently  entrusted  to,  could  its  success 
be  rationally  expected  from  a  mercenary  manager,  at 
whose  critical  quarantine  the  lucri  bonus  ordor  would 
conciliate  a  bill  of  health  to  the  plague  in  pei^son  ?  No  T 
As  the  work  proposed,  such  must  be  the  work  masters. 
Rank,  fortune,  liberal  education,  and  (their  natural  ac- 
companiments, or  consequences,)  critical  discernment,, 
delicate  tact,  disinterestedness,  unsuspected  morals,  no- 
torious patriotism,  and  tried  Maca  naship,  these  were  the 
recommendations  that  influenced  the  votes  of  the  proprf- 
tdary  subscribers  of  Drury-Lane  Theatre,  these  the  mo- 
tives that  occasioned  the  election  of  its  Supieme  Com-^ 
niitlee  of  Management.  This  circumstance  alone  would 
have  excited  a  strong  interest  in  the  public  mind,  re- 
specting the  first  production  of  the  Tragic  Muse  which 
had  been  announced  under  such  auspices,  and  had  pai:sed 
the  ordeal  of  such  judgments ;  and  the  Tragedy,  oq 
which  you  have  requested  my  judgment,  was  the  work 
on  which  the  great  expectations,  justified  by  so  many 
causes,  were  doomed  at  length  to  settle. 

But  before  1  enter  on  the  examinatfon  of  Bertram,  or 
the  Castle  of  St.  Aldehrand^  1  shall  interpose  a  few  words 
on  the  phrase  German  Drama ^  which  1  hold  to  be  alto- 
gether a  misnomer.  At  the  time  of  Lessing,  the  Gor- 
man stage,  such  as  it  was,  appears  to  have  been  a  flat  and 
servile  copy  of  the  French.  It  was  Lessing  who  first  in- 
troduced the  name  and  the  works  of  Shakspeare  to  the 
admiration  of  the  Germans  ;  and  \  should  not,  perhaps, 
go  too  far,  if  I  add,  that  it  was  Lessing  who  first  proved 
to  all  thinking  men,  even  to  Shakspeare's  own  country- 
men, tlie  true  nature  of  his  apparent  irregularities^ 
These,  he  demonstrated  were  deviations  only  from  the 
Accidents  of  the  Greek  Tragedy ;  an(i  from  such  acci- 
dents as  hung  a  heavy  weight  on  the  wings  of  the  Greek 
Poets,  and  narrowed  their  flight  within  the  limits  of  what 


164 

ne  may  call  the    Heroic  Opera^     He    proved,  that  in  all 
i\w.  essentials  of  art,  no  less   than  in  the  truth  of  nature, 
Ihe  plays  of  S)».akspeare  were   incomparably  more  coin- 
cident with  the  principles  of  Aristotle,  than  the  produc- 
tions of  Corneille  and  Racine,  notwithstanding  the  boast- 
ed   regularity  ot  the    latter.     Under   these   convictions, 
were    Lessing's  own  dramatic  works  composed.     Their 
deficiency  is   in  de[)th  and  in   imagination  ;   their  excel- 
lence is  in   the  construction    of  the  plot,  the  good  sense 
of  the  sentin)ents,  the  sobriety   of  the  morals,  and  the 
high  polish  of  the   diction  and    dialogue.      In    short,  his 
dramas  are  the  very  antipodes  of  all  those   which  it  has 
been  the  fashion,  of  late  years,  at  once  to  abuse  and  to 
enjoy  under  the  name  of  tiie   German   Drama.     Of  this 
latter,  Schiller's  Robbers  was  the  earliest  specimen;   the 
first   fruits   of  his   youth,   (I  had  almost  said  of  his  boy- 
hood.) aL'd,  as  such,  the  pledge  and  promise  of  no  ordi- 
nary genius.     Only  as  such^  did  the  maturer  judgment  of 
the  author  tolerate  the   play.     During  his  whole  life  he 
expressed  himself  concerning  this  production,  with  more 
than  needful  aspeiity,  as  a  monster  not  less  oifeneive  to 
good  taste  than  to  sound  morals  ;   and,  in  his  latter  years, 
his  indignation  at  the  unwonted    popularity  of  the  Rob- 
bers^ seduced  him  into  contrary  extremes,  viz.  a  studied 
feebleness  of  interest,  (as  far  as  the  interest  was  to    be 
derived  from  incidents  and  the  excitement  of  curiosity  ;) 
a  diction  elaborately  metrical  ;  the  affectation  of  rhymes ; 
and  the   pedantry  of  the  chorus.     But  to  understand  the 
true  character  of  the  Robbers,  and  of  the  countless  imi- 
tations which  were  its  spawn,  I  must  inform  you,  or,  at 
least,  call  to  your  recollection,  that  about  that  time,  and 
for  some  years  before  it,  three  of  the  most  popular  books 
In  the  German  language,  were,  the  translations  of  Young's 
JS'ighi  Thoughts,  Hcrvey's  Meditations,  and  Richardcon's 
Clarissa  Harlozi-e.     Now,  we  have  only  to  combine  the 
bloated  style   and  peculiar  rhythm  of  Hervey,  v.hich  is 
poetic  only  on  account  of  its  utter  untitness  for  prose,  and 
might  a*!  appropriately  be  called   prosaic,   irom  its  utler 
untitness  for  poetry  ;   we  have  only,  I  repeat,  to  combine 
ihese  Herveyisms  with  the  strained  thoughts,  the  figura- 
tive metaphysics  and  solemn  epigrams  of  Young  on  the 
one'  hand  ;   and  with  the   loaded  sensibility,  the  minute 
detail,  the  morbid  consciousness-  of  every  thought  and 


165 

feeling  in  the  whole  flux  and  reflux  of  the  mind,  in  short, 
the  self-involuti«>n  and  dreamlike  conlinuity  of  Richard- 
son on  the  other  hand  ;  and  then,  to  add  the  horrific  rn- 
cidents,  and  mysterious  villains — (geniuses  of  supernatu- 
ral intellect,  if  you  will  take  the  author's  words  for  it, 
but  on  a  level  with  the  meanest  rufiSans  of  the  condemned 
ceils,  if  we  are  to  judge  by  their  actions  and  contri- 
vances)— to  add  the  ruined  castles,  the  dungeons,  the 
trap-doors,  the  skeletons,  the  flesh-and-blood  ghosts, 
and  the  perpetual  moon-shine  of  a  modern  author, 
(themselves  the  literary  brocrd  of  the  Castle  of  Otran- 
to,  the  translations  of  which,  with  the  imitations  and 
improvements  aforesaid,  were  about  that  time  beginning 
to  make  as  much  noise  in  Germany  as  their  originals 
were  making  in  England,) — and  as  the  compound  oi' 
these  ingredients  duly  mixed,  you  v»'i!l  recognise  the  so 
called  German  Drama.  The  Olla  Podrida  thus  cooked 
up,  was  denounced,  by  the  best  critics  in  Germany,  as 
the  mere  cramps  of  weakness,  and  orgasms  of  a  sickly 
imagination,  on  the  part  of  the  author,  and  the  lowest 
provocation  of  torpid  feeling  on  that  of  the  readers. 
The  old  blunder,  however,  concerning  the  irregularity 
and  wildness  of  Shakspeare,  in  which  the  German  did 
but  echo  the  French,  who  again  were  but  the  echoes  of 
eur  own  critics,  was  still  in  vogue,  and  Shakspeare  was 
quoted  as  authority  for  the  most  anti  Shakspearean  Dra- 
ma. We  have,  indeed,  two  poets  who  wrote  as  one, 
near  the  age  of  Shakspeare,  to  whom,  (as  the  worst  cha- 
racteristic of  their  writings,)  the  Coryphaeus  of  the  pre- 
sent Drama  may  challenge  the  honour  of  being  a  poor 
relation,  or  impoverished  descendant.  For  if  we  would 
charitably  consent  to  forget  the  comic  humour,  the  vvit, 
the  felicities  of  style,  in  other  words,  a//  the  poetry,  and 
nine- tenths  of  all  the  genius  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
that  which  would  remain  becomes  a  Kotzebue. 

The  so-called  Gennan  Drama,  therelbre,  is  English  in 
its  origiri,  English  in  its  materials^  and  English  by  re- 
adoption  ;  and  till  we  can  prove  that  Kotzebue,  or  any 
of  the  whole  breed  of  Kotzebues,  whether  dramatists  or 
romantic  writers,  or  writers  of  romantic  dramas,  were 
ever  admitted  to  any  other  shelf  in  the  libraries  of  v/ell» 
educated  Germans  thnn  were  occupied  by  their  originals^^ 
and  apes'  apes  in  tlieir   mother  country,  we  shouM  sub- 


166 

mit  to  carry  onr  own  brat  on  our  o\x'n  shoulders  ;  or,  la- 
Xher,  consider  it  as  a  lack-grace  returned  from  transporta- 
tion with  such  improvements  only  in  growth  and  manners 
a?  young  transported  co  vicls  usually  come  home  with. 

I  know  nothing  that  contributes  more  to  a  clear  msight 
into  the  true  nature  of  any  literary  phenomenon,  than 
the  comparison  of  it  with  some  elder  production-,  the  like- 
ness of  which  is  striking,  yet  only  apparent;  while  the 
difference  is  real.  In  the  present  case  this  opportunity 
is  furnished  us  by  the  old  Spanish  play,  ^u\\\\(^^\  Atheista 
FulmiJiato,  formerly,  and  perhaps  still,  acted  in  the 
churches  and  monasteries  of  Spain,  and  which,  under  va- 
rious names,  {Don  Juan,  the  Libertine,  ».^'C.,)  has  had  its 
day  of  favour  in  every  country  throughout  Europe.  A 
popularity  so  extensive,  and  of  a  work  so  grotesque  and 
extravagant,  claims  and  merits  philosophical  attention  and 
investigation.  The  lirst  point  to  be  noticed  is,  that  the 
play  is  throughout  imaginative.  Nothing  of  it  belongs 
lo  the  real  world  but  the  nan)esof  the  places  and  persons. 
The  comic  parts  equally  with  the  tragic  ;  the  living, 
equally  with  the  defunct  characters,  are  creatures  of  the 
brain  ;  as  little  amenable  to  the  rules  ot'  ordinary  proba- 
bility zs  the  Satan  of  Paradise  Lost,  or  the  Caliban  of 
the  Tempest,  and,  therefore,  to  be  understood  and  judged 
of  as  impersonat^^d  abstractions  Rank,  fortune,  wit,  ta- 
lent, acquired  knowldge,  and  liberal  accomplishments, 
with  beauty  of  person,  vigorous  health,  and  constitution- 
al hardihood — all  these  advantages,  elevated  by  the  ha- 
bits and  syii^pathies  of  noble  birth  and  national  charac- 
ter, are  supposed  to  have  combined  in  Don  Juan,  so  as  to 
give  him  the  means  ot  carrying  into  all  lis  practical  con- 
sequences the  doctrine  of  a  godless  nature  as  the  sole 
ground  and  efficient  cause  not  only  of  all  things,  events, 
and  appearances,  but,  likewise,  of  all  our  thoughts  sen- 
sations, impulses,  and  actions.  Obedience  to  nature  is 
the  only  virtue  ;  the  gratification  of  the  passions  and  ap- 
petites her  only  dictate  ;  each  individual's  self-will  the 
sole  organ  through  which  nature  utters  her  commands^ 
and 

"  Self-contradiction  is  the  only  wrong  ! 
For,  by  tJie  laws  of  spirit,  in  the  right 
Is  every  individual  character 
That  acts  in  strict  consistence  with  itself^*'' 


167 

That  speculative  opinions,  bowc^ver  impious  and  daring 
they  may  be,  are  not  always  followed  by  correspondent 
conduct,  is  most  true,  as  well  as  that  they  can  scarcely, 
in  any  instance,  be  systematically  realized,  on  account  of 
their  unsuitabieness  to  human  nature  and  to  the  institu- 
tions of  society.  It  can  be  hell,  only  where  it  is  all  hell ; 
and  a  separate  world  of  devils  is  necessary  for  the  exis- 
tence of  any  one  complete  devil.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  it  is  no  less  clear,  nor,  with  the  biography  ot  Car- 
rier and  his  fellow  atheists  before  us,  can  it  be  denied, 
without  wilful  blindness,  that  the  (so  called)  syste.a  of 
nature^  (i.  e.  materialism,  with  the  utter  rejection  of  mo- 
ral responsibility,  of  a  present  providence,  and  ol  both 
present  and  future  retribution,)  may  influence  the  cha- 
racters and  actions  of  individuals,  and  even  of  commu- 
nities, to  a  degree  that  almost  does  away  the  distinction 
between  men  and  devils,  and  will  make  the  page  of  the 
future  historian  resemble  the  narration  of  a  madman's 
dreams.  It  is  not  the  wickedness  o(  Don  Juan,  therefore, 
which  constitutes  the  character  an  abstraction,  and  re- 
moves it  from  the  rules  of  probability  ;  but  the  rapid 
succession  of  the  correspondent  acts  and  incidents,  his 
intellectual  superiority,  and  the  splendid  accumulation 
of  his  gifts  and  desirable  qualities,  as  co-existent  with 
entire  wickedness  in  one  and  the  sam^  person.  But  this, 
likewise,  is  the  very  circumstance  which  gives  to  this 
strange  play  its  charm  and  universal  interest.  Don  Juan  is, 
from  beginning  to  end,  an  intelligible  character,  as  much 
so  as  the  Satan  of  Milton.  The  poet  asks  only  of  the 
reader,  wdiat  as  a  poet  he  is  privileged  to  ask,  viz  ,  that 
sort  of  negative  faith  in  the  existence  of  such  a  bein^^, 
which  w^e  willingly  give  to  productions  professedly  ideal^ 
and  a  disposition  to  the  same  state  of  feeling  as  that  with 
which  we  contemplate  the  idealized  figures  of  the  Apollo 
Belvidere,  and  the  Farnese  Hercules.  What  the  lier- 
cules  is  to  the  eye  in  corporeal  strength,  Don  Juan  is 
to  the  mind  in  strength  of  character  The  ideal  consiBts 
in  the  happy  balance  of  the  generic  with  the  individual. 
The  former  makes  the  character  representative  and  sym- 
bolical, therefore  instructive  ;  because,  mutatis  mutandis, 
it  is  applicable  to  whole  classes  of  men.  The  latter 
gives  its  living  interest  ;  for  nothing  lives  or  is  real^  but 
as  definite  and  individual.     To  understand  this  compiiite- 


IG8 

ly,  the  render  need  only  recollect  the  specific  state  of 
his  feelings,  when  in  lookincr  at  a  piclijre  of  ^he  historic, 
(more  propevly  of  t])e  poetic  or  heroic,)  class,  he  objects 
to  a  particular  figure  a?  being  too  much  of  2i  portrait; 
and  this  interruption  of  his  complacency  he  feels  without 
the  least  reference  to,  or  the  least  acquaintance  with, 
:\wy  person  in  real  life  whom  he  might  recognise  in  this 
figure.  It  is  enough  that  such  a  figure  is  not  ideal ;  and, 
therefore,  not  idc<al,  because  one  of  the  two  tractors  or 
elements  of  the  ideal  is  in  excess.  A  similar  and  more 
powerful  objection  he  would  feel  towards  a  set  of  figures 
which  were  Diere  abstractions,  like  those  of  Cipriani, 
and  what  have  been  called  Greek  forms  and  faces,  i.  e. 
outlines  drawn  according  to  a  recipe.  These  again  are 
not  ideal,  because  in  these  the  other  element  is  in  excess. 
''Forma  for  mans  per  forma  m  formatam  iraiislucens,^^ 
is  the  definition  and  perfection  of  ideal  art. 

This  excellence  is  so  happily  achieved  in  the  Don 
Juan,  that  it  is  capable  of  interesting  without  poetry, 
nay,  even  without  words,  as  in  our  pantomime  of  that 
name  We  see  clearly  how  the  character  is  formed  ; 
and  tJ^e  very  extravagance  of  the  incidents,  and  the  s\i- 
per-human  entireness  oi  Don  Juan^s  agency,  prevents  the 
wickedness  from  shocking  our  minds  to  any  painful  de- 
gree. (We  do  not  believe  it  enough  for  this  effect ;  no, 
not  even  with  that  kind  of  temporary  and  negative  belief 
or  acquiescence  which  I  have  described  above.)  Mean- 
time the  qualities  of  his  character  are  too  desirable,  too 
flattering  to  our  prid  and  our  wishes,  not  to  make  up  on 
this  side  as  much  additional  faith  as  was  lost  on  the  other. 
There  is  no  da^nger  (thinks  the  spectator  or  reader)  of 
my  becoming  such  a  monster  of  iniquity  as  Don  Juan! 
/  never  shall  be  an  atheist !  /  shall  never  disallow  all 
distinction  between  right  and  wrong  !  /  have  not  the 
least  inclination  to  be  so  outrageous  a  drawcansir  in  my 
love  affairs  !  But  to  possess  such  a  power  of  captivating 
and  enchanting  the  affections  of  the  other  sex  !  to  be  ca- 
pable of  inspiring  in  a  charming  and  even  a  virtuous  wo- 
man,  a  love  so  deep,  and  so  entirely  personal  to  me  ! 
that  even  my  worst  vices,  (if  I  'were  vicious)  even  my 
cruelty  and  perfidy,  (if  I  "were  cruel  and  perfidious)  could 
not  eradicate  the  passion  !  To  be  so  loved  for  my  own 
^^If^  that  even  with  a  distinct  knowledge  of  my  character. 


169 

she  yet  died  to  save  me  !  this,  sir,  takes  hold  of  two 
sides  of  our  Haturo  the  better  and  the  worse.  For  the 
heroic  disinterestedness  to  which  love  can  transport  a 
woir.an,  cannot  be  contemplated  without  an  honourable 
erpoticn  of  reverence  towards  womanhood  ;  and  on  the 
ot!  er  hand,  it  is  among  the  miseries,  and  abides  in  the 
dark  ground-work  of  our  nature,  to  crave  an  outward 
confirmation  of  that  something  w^ithin  us,  which  is  our 
very  self,  that  something,  not  made  up  of  our  qualities 
and  rcicitions,  but  itself  the  supporter  and  substantial  ba- 
sis of  ail  these.  Love  me,  and  not  my  qualities,  may  be 
a  vicious  and  an  insane  wish,  but  it  is  not  a  wish  wholly 
without  a  meaning. 

Without  power,  virtue  would  be  insufficient  and  inca^ 
.  pablft  of  revealing  its  being  It  would  resemble  the  ma- 
gic transformation  of  Tasso's  heroine  irto  a  tree,  in 
which  she  could  only  groan  and  bleed.  (Hence  power  is 
necessarily  an  object  of  our  desire  and  of  our  admiration.) 
But  of  all  power,  that  of  the  mind  is,  on  every  account, 
the  grand  desideratum  of  human  ambition.  We  shall  be 
as  gods  in  knowledge,  was  and  must  have  been  the^r^^ 
temptation  ;  and  the  co-existence  of  great  intellectual 
lordship  with  guilt  has  never  been  adequately  represent- 
ed without  exciting  the  strongest  interest,  and  for  this 
reason,  that  in  this  bad  and  heterogeneous  co-ordination 
we  can  contemplate  the  intellect  of  man  more  exclusive- 
ly as  a  separate  self-subsistence,  than  in  its  proper  state 
of  subordination  to  his  own  conscience,  or  to  the  will  of 
an  infinitely  superior  being. 

This  is  the  sacred  charm  of  Shakspeare's  male  charac- 
ters in  general.  They  are  all  cast  in  the  mould  of  Shak- 
speare's own  gigantic  intellect  ;  and  this  is  the  open  at- 
traction of  his  Richard,  lago,  Edmund,  &c.  in  particular. 
But  again  ;  of  all  intellectual  power,  that  of  superiority 
to  the  fear  of  the  invisible  world  is  the  most  dazzling. 
Its  influence  is  abundantly  proved  by  the  one  circum- 
stance, that  it  can  bribe  us  into  a  voluntary  submission 
of  our  better  knowledge,  into  suspension  of  all  our  judg- 
ment derived  from  constant  experience,  and  enable  us  to 
peruse,  with  the  liveliest  interest,  the  wildest  tales  of 
ghosts,  wizards,  genii,  and  secret  talismans.  On  this 
propensity,  so  deeply  rooted  in  our  nature,  a  specific 
dramatic  probability  may  be  raised  by  a  true  poet,  if  the 
Vol.  II.  !5 


170 

whole  of  his  work  be  in  harmony  ;  a  dramatic  probabi- 
lity, sufficient  for  dramatic  pleasure,  even  when  the  com- 
ponent characters  and  incidents  border  on  impossibility. 
The  poet  does  not  require  us  to  be  awake  and  believe  ; 
he  solicits  us  only  to  yield  ourselves  to  a  dream  ;  and  this 
too  with  our  eyes  open,  and  with  our  judgment  perdue 
behind  the  curtain,  ready  to  awake  us  at  the  first  motion 
of  our  will ;  and  meantime,  only  not  to  £?i5believe.  And 
in  such  a  state  of  mind,  who  but  must  be  impressed  with 
the  cool  intrepidity  of  Don  John  on  the  appearance  of 
bis  father's  ghost : 

**  Ghost. — Monster  !  behold  these  wounds  !'' 

**  D.  John. — I  do !  They  were  well  meant,  and  well  perform- 
ed, I  see." 

"  Ghost. Repent,  repent  of  all  thy  villanies. 

My  clamorous  blood  to  heaven  for  vengeance  cries, 
Heaven  will  pour  out  his  judgments  on  you  all. 
Hell  g-apes  for  you,  for  you  each  fiend  doth  call, 
And  hourly  waits  your  unrepenting  tall. 
You  with  eternal  horrors  they'll  torment. 
Except  of  all  your  crimes  you  suddenly  repent." 

(Ghost  sinks.) 

"  D.  John. — Farewell,  thou  art  a  foolish  ghost.  Repent, 
quoth  he  !  what  could  this  mean  ?  our  senses  are  all  in  a  mist, 
sure.'* 

'*  D.  Antonio — (one  of  D.  Juan's  reprobate  companions.) 
They  are  not  !   'Twas  a  ghost." 

*'  D.  Lopez. — (another  reprobate.)  I  ne'er  believed  those 
foolish  tales  before." 

D.  John. — Come!  'Tis  no  matter.  Let  it  be  what  it  will, 
it  must  be  natural." 

**  D.  Ant — And  nature  is  unalterable  in  us  too.** 

•'  D.  John. — 'Tis  true!  The  nature  of  a  ghost  cannot 
change  our's." 

Who  also  can  deny  a  portion  of  sublimity  to  the  tre- 
mendous consistency  with  which  he  stands  out  the  last 
fearful  trial,  like  a  second  Prometheus  ? 

<♦  Chorus  of  Devils." 

♦*  Statue-Ghost. — Will  you  not  relent  and  feel  remorse  .'*" 
'*  D.  John — Could'st  thou  bestow   another  heart  on  me,  I 
miglit.     But  with  this  heart  I  have,  I  cannot." 
*/D.  Lopez. — These  thrngs  are  prodigious." 


171 

'•  D.  x4nton — I  have  a  sort  of  grudging   to  relent,  but 
somethiog-  holds  me  back." 

*'  D.  Lop. — If  we  could,  'tis  now  too  late.     I  will  not." 
.    *'  D.  Ant.— We  defy  thee  !" 

"  Ghost. — Perish  ye  impious  wretches,  go  and  find  the  pu- 
nishments laid  up  in  store  for  you  !" 

(Thunder  and  lightning.    D.  Lop.   and  D.  Ant.  are  swal- 
lowed up. 

*'  Ghost  to  D.  Johx Behold  their  dreadful  fates,  and  know 

that  thy  last  moment's  come  !" 

"  D.    John. — Think   not    to  fright  me,  foolish  ghost ;  1*11 
break  your  marble  body  in  pieces,  and  pull  down  your  horse." 
(Thunder  and  lightning — chorus  of  devils,  &c. 
*•  D.  John.  -  These  things  I  see  with  wonder,  but  no  fear. 
Were  all  the  elements  to  be  confounded, 
And  shuf3ed  all  into  their  former  chaos; 
Were  seas  of  sulphur  flaming  round  about  me, 
And  all  mankind  roaring  within  those  fires, 
I  could  not  fear,  or  feel  the  least  remorse. 
To  the  last  instant  I  would  dare^  thy  power. 
Here  I  stand  firrn.  and  all  thy  threats  condemn. 
Thy  murderer  [to  the  ^host  of  one  whom,  he  had  murdered) 
Stands  here  !  Now  do  thy  worst !" 

[He  is  swallowed  up  in  a  cloud  of  fire  >) 

In  fine,  the  character  oi Don  John  consists  in  the  union 
of  everything  desirable  to  human  nature,  as  means,  and 
which  therefore  by  the  well-known  law  of  association  be- 
come at  length  desirable  on  their  own  account,  and  iiv 
their  own  dignity  they  are  here  displayed,  as  being  em- 
ployed to  ends  so  wwhuman,  that  in  the  efiect  they  ap- 
pear almost  as  means  without  an  end.  The  ingredients 
too  are  mixed  in  the  happiest  proportion,  so  as  to  uphold 
and  relieve  each  other — more  especially  in  that  constant 
interpoise  of  wit,  gayety,  and  social  generosity,  which 
prevents  the  criminal,  even  in  his  nf>ost  atrocious  moments, 
from  sinking  into  the  mere  ruffian,  as  far  at  least,  as  our 
imagination  sits  in  judgment  Above  all,  the  fine  suffu- 
sion through  the  whole,  with  the  characteristic  manners 
and  feelinjis  of  a  highly  bred  gentleman  gives  life  to  the 
drama.  Thus  having  invited  the  staUie-ghost  of  the  ;jo- 
vernor  whom  he  had  murdered,  to  supper,  which  invita- 
tion the  marble  ghost  acceptetl  by  a  nod  of  the  head, 
Don  John  has  prepared  a  banquet. 

*'  D.    JoHN\ — Some  wine,   sirrah !  Here's  to  Don  Pedro's 

ghost— he  should  have  been  welcome." 


172 

**  D.  Lop. — The  rascal  is  afraid  of  you  after  death.*' 

{One  knocks  har'd  at  the  door,) 
"  D.  John. — {to  the  servant) --^i^e  and  do  your  duty." 
*'  Serv. — Oh  the  devil,  the  devil !"  {marble  ghost  enters.) 
*'  D.  John.— Ha  !  'tis  the  g-host !  Let's  rise  and  receive  him  ! 
Gome  Governor  you  are  welcome,  sit  there  ;  if  we  had  thought 
you  would  have  come,  we  would  have  staid  for  you. 

*  *  if-  if-  *  -H-  i(-      "     -k-  * 

Here  Governor,  your  health  !  Friends  put  it  about !  Here's  ex- 
cellent meat,  taste  of  this  rag-out.  Come,  I'll  help  you,  come 
eat  and  let  old  quarrels  be  fcirji^otten." 

{The  g'host  threatens  him  with  vengeance,) 

"  D.  John. — We  are  too  much  confirmed— -curse  on  this 
drj'  discourse.  Come  here's  to  your  mistress  ;  you  had  one 
when  yon  were  living- :  not  forgetting  your  sweet  sister." 

{devils  enter.) 

"  D.  John. — Are  these  some  of  your  retinue  ?  Devils  say 
you  ?  I'm  sorry  I  have  no  burnt  brandy  to  treat  'era  with ; 
that's  drink  fit  for  devils."  &c. 

Nor  is  the  s^ene  from  which  we  quote  interesting  in 
dramatic  probability  alone  ;  it  is  susceptible  likewise  of 
a  sound  moral  ;  of  a  moral  that  has  more  than  common 
claims  on  the  notice  of  a  too  numerous  class,  who  are 
ready  to  receive  the  qualities  of  gentlemanly  courage, 
and  scrupulous  honour  (in  all  the  recognized  laws  of 
honour,)  as  the  substitutes  of  virtue,  instead  ot  its  orna' 
ments.  This,  indeed,  is  the  moral  value  of  the  play  at 
large,  and  that  which  places  it  at  a  world's  distance  from 
the  spirit  of  modern  jacobinism  The  latter  introduces 
to  us  clumsy  copies  of  these  showy  instrumental  quali- 
ties, in  order  to  reconcile  us  to  vice  and  want  of  princi- 
ple ;  while  the  Atheista  Fulminato  presents  an  exquisite 
portraiture  of  the  same  qualities,  in  all  their  gloss  and 
glow  ;  but  presents  them  for  the  sole  purpose  of  display- 
ing their  hollowness,  and  in  order  to  put  us  on  our  guard 
by  demonstrating  their  utter  indifference  to  vice  and  vir- 
tue, whenever  these  and  the  like  accomplishments  are 
contemplated  for  themselves  alone. 

Eighteen  years  ago  1  observed,  that  the  whole  secret 
of  the  modern  Jacobinical  drama,  (which,  and  not  the 
German,  is  its  appropriate  designation,)  and  of  all  its 
popularity,  consists  in  the  confusion  and  subversion  of  the 
natural  order  of  things  in  their  causes  and  efifects  :  name- 
ly,  in    the  excitement  of  surprise    by  representing  the 


173 

fjualJties  of  liberality,  refined  feeling,  and  a  nice  sense 
of  honour  (those  things  rather  which  pass  amongst  us  for 
such)  in  persons  and  in  classes  where  experience  teaches 
us  least  to  expect  them  ;  and  by  rewardincj  with  all  the 
sympathies  which  are  the  due  of  virtue,  those  criminals 
whom  law,  reason,  and  religion  have  excommunicated 
from  our  esteem. 

This  of  itself  would  lead  me  back  to  Bertram^  or  the 
Castle  of  St,  Mdobrand ;  but,  in  my  osvn  mind,  this  tra- 
gedy was  brought  into  connexion  with  the  Libertine^ 
(Shad well's  adaptation  of  the  Atheista  Fuiminato  to  the 
English  stage  in  the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second,)  by  the 
fact,  that  our  modern  drama  is  (aken,  in  the  substance  of 
it,  from  the  first  scene  of  the  third  act  of  the  Libertine. 
But  with  what  palpable  superiority  of  judgment  in  the 
original  !  Earth  and  hell,  men  and  spirits,  are  up  in  arms 
against  Don  John  :  the  two  former  acts  cf  the  play  have 
not  only  prepared  us  for  the  supernatural,  but  accustomed 
us  to  the  prodigious.  It  is,  therefore,  neither  more  nor 
less  than  we  anticipate  when  the  captain  exclaims,  "  In 
all  the  dangers  1  have  been,  such  horrors  1  never  knew. 
I  am  quite  unmanned  ;"  and  when  the  hermit  says,  *'  that 
he  had  beheld  the  ocean  in  wildest  rage,  yet  ne'er  before 
saw  a  storm  so  dreadful,  such  horrid  flashes  oi  lightning, 
and  such  claps  of  thunder,  were  never  in  my  remem- 
brance." And  Don  John^s  bursts  of  startling  impiety  is 
equally  intelligible  in  its  motive,  as  dramatic  in  its  effect. 

But  what  is  there  to  accDunt  for  the  prodigy  of  the 
tempest  at  BertranCs  shipwreck  ?  It  is  a  mere  supernatu- 
ral effect  without  even  a  bint  of  any  supernatural  agency; 
a  prodigy  without  any  circumstance  mentioned  that  is 
prodigious;  and  a  miracle  introduced  without  a  ground, 
and  ending  without  a  result.  Every  event  and  every 
scene  of  the  play  might  have  taken  place  as  well  if  jBer- 
iram  and  his  vessel  had  been  driven  in  by  a  common 
hard  gale,  or  from  want  of  provisions.  The  first  act 
would  have  indeed  lost  its  greatest  and  most  sonorous 
picture  ;  a  scene  for  the  sake  of  a  scene,  without  a  w^ord 
spoken  ;  as  suck,  thei^efore^  (a  rarity  without  a  precedent) 
we  must  take  it,  and  be  thankful  !  In  the  opinion  of  not 
a  few,  it  was,  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  the  best  scene 
in  the  play.  I  am  quite  certain  it  was  the  most  innocent : 
and  the  steady,  quiet  uprightness  of  the  flame  of  the 
15* 


174 

wax-candles  which  the  monks  held  over  the  roaring  bil- 
lows amid  the  storm  of  wind  and  rain,  was  really  mira- 
culous. 

The  Sicilian  sea  coast :  a  convent  of  monks  :  night  : 
a  most  portentous,  unearthly  storm  :  a  vessel  is  wreck- 
ed :  contrary  to  all  human  expectation,  one  man  saves 
himself  by  his  prodijsjious  powers  as  a  swimmer,  aided  by 
the  peculiarity  of  his  destination — 

Prior "  All,  all  did  perish — 

1st  Monk — Change,  change  those  drenched  weeds-— 
Pfior — I  wist  not  of  thenn — every  soul  did  perish — 

Enter  3d  Monk  hastily. 
3d  Monk — No,  there  was  one  did  battle  with  the  storm 
With  careless  desperate  force  ;  full  many  times 
His  life  was  won  and  lost,  as  tho'  he  recked  not — 
Ts'o  hand  did  aid  him,  and  he  aided  none — 
Alone  he  breasted  the  broad  wave,  alone 
That  man  was  saved." 

Well  !  This  man  is  led  in  by  the  monks,  supposed  drip- 
ping wet,  and  to  very  natural  inquiries  he  either  remains 
silent,  or  giVes  most  brief  and  surly  answers,  and  after 
three  or  four  of  these  half-line  courtesies,  '*  dashing  off 
the  monks'''  who  had  saved  him,  he  exclaims  in  the  true 
sublimity  of  our  modern  misanthropic  heroism — 

**  Off!  ye  are  men — there's  poison  in  your  touch. 

But  I  must  >ield,  for  this  {what?)  hath  left  me  strengthless." 

.  So  end  the  three  first  scenes.  In  the  next,  (the  Castle  of 
St  Aldobrand,)  we  find  the  servants  there  equally  fright- 
ened V  ith  this  unearthly  storm,  though  wherein  it  dif- 
fered from  other  violent  storms  we  are  not  told,  except 
'that  Hugo  informs  us,  page  9 — 

piet. — "  Hugo,  well  met.     Does  e'en  thy  age  bear 

Memor>  of  so  terrible  a  storm  ? 
H,ioo — They  have  been  frequent  lately. 
Pic '  — They  are  ever  so  in  Siciiy, 
Hugo — So  it  is  said.     But  storms  when  I  was  young 

V/ould  still  pass  o'er  like  Nature's  fitful  fevers. 

And  rendered  all  more  wholesome.     ISow"  their  rage 

Sent  thus  unsea'-:onab!e  and  profitless 

Speaks  like  threats  of  heaven.'^ 


175 

A  most  perplexing  theory  of  Siciiian  storms  is  this  of  oKl 
Hugo!  and,  what  is  very  remarkable,  not  apparently 
founded  on  any  great  familiarity  of  his  own  uith  this 
troublesome  article.  For  when  Pietro  asserts  the  "•  ever 
QHore  frequency'^  of  tempests  in  Sicily,  the  old  man  pro- 
fesseo  to  know  nothing  more  of  the  fact,  but  by  hearsay. 
*'  So  it  is  said." — But  why  he  assumed  this  storm  to  be 
unseasonable,  and  on  what  he  grounded  his  prophecy,  (for 
the  storm  is  still  in  full  furjs)  that  it  would  be  profitless, 
and  without  the  physical  powers  common  to  all  other  vio- 
lent sea- winds  in  purifying  the  atmosphere,  we  are  left 
in  the  dark  ;  as  well  concerning  the  particular  points  in 
which  he  knew  it  (during  its  continuance)  to  differ  from 
those  that  he  had  been  acquainted  with  in  his  youth.  We 
are  at  length  introduced  to  the  Lady  imogine,  who,  we 
learn,  had  not  rested  '*  through^''  the  night,  not  on  account 
of  the  tempest,  for 

"  Lon^  'ere  the  storm  arose,  her  restless  gestures 
Forbade  all  hope  to  see  her  blest  with  sleep." 

Sitting  at  a  table,  and  looking  at  a  portrait,  she  informs 
us — First,  that  portrait-painters  imy  make  a  portrait 
from  memory — 

*'  The  limner's  art  may  trace  the  absent  feature." 

For  surely  these  words  could  never  mean,  that  a  painter 
may  have  a  person  sit  to  him,  who  afterwards  may  leave 
the  room  or  perhaps  the  country  ?  Second,  that  a  portrait- 
painter  can  enable  a  mourning  lady  to  possess  a  good 
likeness  of  her  absent  lover,  but  that  the  portrait-painter 
cannot,  and  who  shall — 

"  Kestore  the  scenes  in  which  Ibey  met  and  parted  ?" 

The  natural  answer  would  have  been — Why,  the  scene- 
painter  to  be  sure  !  But  this  unreasonable  lady  requires 
in  addition  sundry  things  to  be  painted  that  have  neithi^i* 
lines  nor  colours — 

"  The  thoughts,  the  recollections  sweet  and  bitter 
Or  the  Eiysian  dreams  of  lovers  when  they  loved.'* 


1  /o 

VVIiich  l;i?i;  sentGnce  must  be  supposed  to  mean  ;  tthen 
they  zicre  present,  and  m.iking-  love  la  each  othe**. — Then, 
if  this  portrait  couKI  speak,  U  would  ''  acquit  the  faith  of 
v/omankind."  How  ?  Ihxd  she  remained  constant  ?  No, 
she  has  been  married  to  another  nnan,  v/hose  wife  she 
now  ii.  How  then  ?  Why,  that  in  spite  of  her  marriage 
vow,  she  had  continued  to  yearn  and  crave  for  her  for- 
mer lover — 

''  This  has  her  body,  that  her  mind  : 
Which  has  ihe  better  bargain  r" 

The  lover,  however,  was  not  contented  with  this  pre- 
cious arrangement,  as  we  shall  soon  find.      The  lady  pro- 
ceeds to  inform  u-s,  that  during  the  many  years  of  their 
separation,  there  have  happened  in  the  diiferent  parts  of 
the  world,  a  nuQiber  of'*  siicJi  things''^ ;  even  sucli,  as  in 
a  course  of  years  always  have,  and,  till  the   millennium, 
doubtless  always  will  happ€4^  somewhere  or  other.      Yet 
tiiis  passage,  both  in  langnage  ;3nd   in  metre,  is    perhaps 
among  the    best  parts  of  the  Play.     The   Lady's  loved 
companion  and  most   esteemed  attendant,   Clotilda,  noiv 
enters  and  explains  this  love  and  esteem  by  proving  her- 
self a  most  passive  and  dispassionate  listener,  as  well  as 
a  brief  and  lucky  querist,  who  asks  by  c/mrice,  questions 
that  we  should  have  thought  made  for  the  very  sake  of 
the    answers.     In  short,  she   very  much  reminds  us  of 
those  puppet-heroines,  for  whom  the  showman  contrives 
to  dialogue,  w^ithout  any  skill  in  ventriloquism.     This, 
notwithstanding,  is  the  best  scene  in  the  Play,  and  though 
crowded    with  solecisms,    corrupt   diction,   and  offences 
against    metre,    would  possess  merits  sufficient   to  out- 
weigh them,  if  we  could  suspend  the  moral  sense  during 
the  perusal.      It  tells  well  and  passionately  the  prelimi- 
nary circumstances,  and  thus   overcomes  the  main  diffi- 
culty of  most  first  acts,  viz.  that  of  retrospective  narra- 
tion.   It  tells  us  of  her  having  been  honourably  addressed 
by  a  noble  youth,  of  rank  and  fortune  vastly  superior  to 
her  own  :  of  their  mutual  love,  heightened  on  her  part  by- 
gratitude  ;  of  his  loss  of  his  sovereign's  favour ;  his  disgrace, 
attainder  and  llight ;  that  he  (thus  degraded)  sank  into  a 
vile  ruffian,  the  chieftain  of  a  murderous  banditti  ;  and  that 
from  the  habitual  indulgence  of  the  most  reprobate  ha- 


177 

i)its  and  ferocious  passions,  he  had  become  so  changed, 
oven  in  his  appearance  and  feaiures, 

*'  That  she  who  bore  him  had  recoiled  from  him, 
Nor  kiio'.vn  the  alien  visage  of  her  ciiiid  ; 
Yetslili  she  (Imr^ginc)  lov'd  him." 

She  is  compelled  by  the  silent  entreaties  gi  a  father, 
perishing  with  "  bitter  shumeful  want  on  the  cold  earth," 
to  give  her  hand,  with  a  heart  thns  irrevocably  pre-en- 
gaged, to  Lord  Aldobrand,  the  enemy  of  her  lover,  even 
to  the  very  man  who  had  baiBed  his  ambitious  schemes,  and 
was,  at  the  present  time,  entrusted  with  the  execution 
of  the  sentence  of  death  which  had  been  passed  on  Ber- 
tram. Now,  the  proof  of  *'  woman's  love,"  so  industri- 
ously held  forth  for  the  sympathy,  if  not  the  esteem  of  the 
audience,  consists  in  this,  that  though  Bertram  had  become 
a  robber  and  a  murderer  by  trade,  a  ruffian  in  manners, 
yea,  with  form  and  features  at  which  h\^  orvn  mother  co\\\d 
not  but  "  recoil,"  yet  she,  (Lady  Imogine,)  ''  the  wife 
ctf  a  most  noble,  honoured  Lord,"  estimable  as  a  man, 
exemplary  and  affectionate  as  a  husband,  and  the  fond 
father  of  her  only  child — that  she,  notwithstanding  all 
this,  striking  her  heart,  dares  to  say  to  it — 

"  But  thou  art  Bertram's  still,  and  Bertram's  ever." 

A  monk  now  enters,  and  entreats  in  his  Prior's  name  for 
the  wonted  hospitaiitj/,  and  *'  free  noble  usage,^'  of  the 
Castle  of  St.  Aldobrand  for  some  wretched  ship-wrecked 
souis,  and  from  this  we  learn,  for  the  first  time,  to  our 
infinite  surprise,  that  notwithstanding  the  supernatural- 
ness  of  the  storm  aforesaid,  not  only  Bertram,  but  the 
vv^hole  of  his  gang,  had  been  saved,  by  what  means  we  are 
left  to  conjecture,  and  can  only  conclude  that  they  had 
all  the  same  desperate  swimming  pov/ers,  and  the  same 
saving  destiny  as  the  hero,  Bertram  himself.  So  ends 
the  first  act,  and  with  it  the  tale  of  the  events,  both 
those  of  which  the  Tragedy  be£,ins,  and  those  which  had 
occurred  previous  to  the  date  of  its  Commencement.  The 
second  disphtys  Bertram  in  disturbed  sleep,  which  the 
Prior,  who  hanii:s  over  him,  prefers  calhng  a  "  starting 
trance,"  and   with   a   strained  voice,  that  would    have 


178 

awakened  one  of  the  seven  sleepers,  observes  to  the  au- 
dience— 

•<  HoT7  the  lip  works'  How  the  hare  teeth  do  grind  ! 
And  beaded  drops  course  down  his  writhen  brow  !"* 

The  dramatic  effect  of  which  passage  we  not  only  con- 
cede to  the  admirers  of  this  Tragedy,  bat  acknowledge 
the  further  advantage  of  preparing  the  audience  for  the 
most  surprising  series  of  wry  faces,  proflated  mouths,  and 
lunatic  gestures  that  were  ever  '*  launched'''  on  an  audi- 
ence to  "  sear  the  sense,''''] 

Prior — "  I  will  awake  him  from  this  horrid  trance^ 

This  is  no  natural  sleep  !  Ho,  vjakc  thee^  stranger.*' 

This  is  rather  a  whimsical  application  of  the  verb  re- 
tiex  we  must  confess,  though  we  remember  a  similar 
transfer  of  the  agent  to  the  patient  in  a  manuscript 
Tragedy,  in  which  the  Bertram  of  the  piece,  pros- 
trating a  man  with  a  single  blow  of  his  fist,  exclaims 
— ^'  Knock  me  thee  down,  then  ask  thee  if  thou  liv'st." — 
Well,  the  stranger  obeys  ;  and  whatever  his  sleep  might 
have  been,  his  waking  was  perfectly  natural,  for  lethargy 
itself  could  not  withstand  the  scolding  stentorship  of  Mr. 
Holland,  the  Prior.  We  next  learn  from  the  best  autho- 
rity, his  own  confession,  that  the  misanthropic  hero, 
whose  destiny  was  incompatible  with  drowning,  is  Count 
Bertram,    who    not  only  reveals  his  past  fortunes,  but 

* 1'  The  big  round  tears 

Coursed  one  another  down  his  innocent  nose 

In  piteous  chase," 
says  ShaAspeare  of  a  wounded  stag-,  hanpng  his  head  over  a  stream  :  na- 
turally, from  the  position  of  the  head,  and  most  beutifully,  from  the  asso- 
ciation of  the  preceding"  ima^^e,  of  the  cliase,  in  which  **  the  poor  seques- 
ter'd  stag-  from  thie  hunter's  aim  had  ta'en  a  hurt."  In  the  supposed  position 
of  Eertiam,  the  metaphor,  if  not  false,  loses  all  the  propriety  of  the 
orig-inal. 

f  Among- a  number  of  other  instance's  of  words  chosen  without  reason, 
Imofiine,  in  the  first  act,  declares  that  thunder-storms  were  not  able  to  in- 
tercept her  pra}  ers  for  "  the  desperate  man,  in  desperate  nays  who- 
dmW 

"  Yea,  when  the  launched  bolt  did  sear  her  sen^e, 

Her  souFs  deep  orisons  were  bri;athed  for  him  ;" 
i  e.  when  a  red-hot  bolt,  launched  at  her  from  a  thunder-cloud,  hftd  cau- 
terized her  sense,  in  plain  Enj^'Iish,  burnt  her  eyes  cut  of  her  head,  »lie 
kept  still  prayins,  on 

"  Was  not  iliis  love  ?  Yea,  thus  doth^oineii  love  I" 


179 

avows  with  open  atrocity,  his  satanic  hatred  of  Imogine's 
Lord,  and  his  frantic  thirst  of  revenge  ;  and  so  the  rav- 
ing character  raves,  and  the  scoidins:  char^tcter  scolds — 
and  M'hat  else  ?  Does  not  the  Prior  act  ?  Does  be  not 
•  end  for  a  posse  of  constables  or  thieftakers,  to  handcuff 
the  villain,  and  take  him  either  to  Bedlam  or  Nevv.gate  ? 
Nothing  of  the  kind  ;  the  author  preserver  the  unity  of 
character,  and  the  scolding  Prior  from  first  to  last  does 
nothing  but  scold,  vvi^^h  the  exception,  indeed,  of  the  last 
scene  ofthi-  last  act,  in  which,  with  a  most  surprising  re- 
volution, be  whmes,  weeps  and  kneels  to  the  tor^demned 
bla>^pheming  assassin  out  of  pure  affection  to  the  high- 
hearted man,  the  sublimity  of  whose  angel-sin  rivals  the 
star-bright  apostate,  (i.  e.  who  was  as  proud  as  Lucifer, 
and  as  wicked  as  the  Devil,)  and  *'  iiad  ihriiled  him" 
(Prior  Holland  aforesaid)  with  wild  admiration. 

Accordingly,  in  the  very  next  scene,  we  have  this  tra- 
gic Macheath,  with  his  whole  gang,  in  the  Castle  of  St. 
Aldobrand,  without  any  attempt  on  the  Prior's  part  either 
to  prevent  him,  or  to  put  the  mistress  and  servants  of  the 
Castle  on  their  guard  against  their  new  inmates,  though 
he  (the  Prior)  knew,  ;^nd  confesses  that  he  knew,  that 
Bertram's  *'  fearful  mates"  were  assassins  so  habituated 
and  naturalized  to  guilt,  that — 

*'  When  their  drenched  hold  forsook  both  gold  and  gear, 
They  griped  their  daggers  with  a  murderer's  instinct ;" 

and  though  he  also  knew,  that  Bertram  was  the  leader 
of  a  band  whose  trade  was  blood.  To  the  Castle,  how- 
ever, he  goes,  thus  with  the  holy  Prior's  consent,  if  not 
with  his  assistance  ;   and  thither  let  us  follow  him. 

No  sooner  is  our  hero  safely  housed  in  the  castf^  of 
St.  Aldobrand,  than  he  attracts  the  notice  of  the  lady\and 
her  confidante,  by  his  "-  wild  and  terrible  dark  eyes," 
**  muffled    form,"    ''  fearful    form,"^    "  darkly    wild," 

*  This  sort  of  repetition  is  one  of  this  writer's  pe«-uHarities,  and  there 
is  scarce  a  page  vvliich  does  not  furnish  one  or  more  instances — E>i.  gr. 
in  the  f.rstpa^e  or  two.  Act  I.  hne  7th,  "  and  deemed  that  I  might  sleep.'* 
— Line  10,  ^' Did  rock  and  quiver  in  the  bickc^rinj^- ^/;7re." — Lines  i4,  l5, 
IB,  '*  But  by  the  momently  glenrns  of  sheeted  blue^  Did  the  pale  marbles 
glare  so  siernly  on  me,  I  almost  daemed  thevlived  "— Line  37,  "  The  glare 
of  Hell. "—Line  35,  "  O  holy  Prior,  this  'is  no  earthly  .storm."— Line  .38, 
"  This  is  no  earthly  siorm.^^ — Line  42,  "■  Denling  w'tl.  us." — Line  43, 
"  Deal  thus  sterDl7."~Line  44,  "  Spealt  I  thou  liast  something  semP'—''  A 


180 

'*  proudly  stern,"  and  the  like  common  place  indefinites, 
seasoncL^  l>y  nierely  verbal  antitheses,  and,  at  best,  copied, 
with  very  slight  cliange,  from  the  Conrade  of  Southey's 
Joan  of  Arc.  The  lady  Imo^ine,  who  has  been  (as  is  the 
case,  she  tells  us,  with  all  soft  and  solemn  spirits)  rsjor- 
shipping  the  moon  on  a  terrace  or  rampart  within  view 
of  tlie  castle,  insists  on  having  an  interview  with  our  hero, 
and  this,  too,  tete-a-tete.  Would  the  reader  learn  why 
and  wherefore  the  confidante  is  exchided,  who  very 
properly  remonstrates  against  such  '*  conference,  alone, 
at  night,  with  one  who  bears  such  fearful  form" — the 
reason  foHowi^ — *'  wh}^,  therefore  send  him  I"  I  sny^fol- 
lozf)s,  because  the  next  line,  *'  all  things  of  fear  have  lost 
their  power  over  me,"  is  separated  from  the  former  by 
a  break  or  pause,  and  beside  that  it  is  a  very  poor  an- 
swer to  the  danger — is  no  ansv/er  at  all  to  the  gross 
indelicacy  of  this  wilful  exposure.  We  must, 
therefor^,  regard  it  as  a  mere  afterthought,  that  a 
little  softens  the  rudeness,  but  adds  nothing  to  the 
weight  of  that  exquisite  woman's  reason  aforesaid.  And 
so  exit  Clotilda  and  enter  Bertram,  who  "  stands  without 
looking  at  her,"  that  is,  with  his  fower  limbs  forked,  his 
arms  akimbo,  his  side  to  the  lady's  front  the  whole  figure 
resembling  an  inverted  Y.  He  is  soon,  however,  roused 
from  the  r4at8  surly  to  the  state  frantic,  and  then  follow 
raving,  yelling,  cursing,  she  fainting,  he  relenting,  in 
runs  Imogine's  child,  squeaks  "mother  I"  He  snatches 
it  up,  and  with  a  "  God  bless  thee,  child  I  Bertram  has 
kissed  thy  child," — the  curtain  drops.  The  third  act  is 
short,  and  short  be  our  account  of  it.  It  introduces  Lord 
St.  Aldobrand  on  his  road  homeward,  and  next  Imogine 
in  the  convent,  confessing  the  foulness  of  her  heart  to  the 
prior,  who  first  indulges  his  old  humour  with  a  fit  of 
senseless  scolding,  then  leaves  her  alone  with  her  ruf- 
fian paramour,  with  whom  she  makes  at  once  an  infamous 
appointment,  and  the  curtain  drops,  that  it  may  be  carri- 
ed into  act  and  consummation. 

I  want  w^ords  to  describe  the  mingled  horror  and  dis- 
gust w^ith  which  1  witnessed  the  opening  of  the  fourth 
act,  considering  it  as  a  melancholy  proof  of  the  deprava- 
tion of  the  public  mind.     The  shocking  spirit  of  jacobin- 

fmrful si^ht  /'*— Line  43,  "  Whathast  thou  seenf  A  mteous, fearful sight.''^—^ 
Line-iS,  '•^ (quivering gleams y — Line 50,  "In  the  hollow fQU5es?/<Ae storm/' 
—Line  6l,  "  Jhv. pauses  ff  the  storin,''^  &c. 


181 

ism  seemed  no  longer  confined  to  politics.  The  fami- 
liarity with  atrocious  events  and  characters  appeared  to 
have  poisoned  the  taste,  even  where  it  had  not  directly 
disorganized  the  moral  principles,  and  left  the  feelings 
callous  to  all  the  mild  appeals,  and  craving  alone  for  the 
grossest  and  most  outrageous  stimulants.  The  very  fact 
then  present  to  our  senses,  that  a  British  audience  could 
remain  passive  under  such  an  insult  to  common  decency, 
nay,  receive  with  a  thunder  of  applause,  a  human  being 
supposed  to  have  come  reeking  from  the  consummation 
of  this  complex  foulness  and  baseness,  these  and  the  like 
reflections  so  pressed  as  with  the  weight  of  lead  upon  my 
heart,  that  actor,  author,  and  tragedy  would  have  been 
forgotten,  had  it  not  been  for  a  plain  elderly  man  sitting 
beside  me,  who,  with  a  very  serious  flice,  that  at  once 
expressed  surprize  and  aversion,  touched  my  elbow,  and 
pointing  to  the  actor,  said  to  me  in  a  half-whisper — *'  Do 
you  see  that  little  fellow  there  ?  he  has  just  been  com- 
mitting adultery !"  Somewhat  relieved  by  the  laugh 
which  this  droll  address  occasioned,  I  forced  back  my  at- 
tention to  the  stage  sufficiently  to  learn,  that  Bertram  is 
recovered  from  a  transient  fit  of  remorse,  by  the  informa- 
tion that  St.  Aldobrand  was  commissioned  (to  do,  what 
every  honest  man  must  have  done  without  commis- 
sion, if  he  did  his  duty)  to  seize  him  and  deliver  him  to 
the  just  vengeance  of  the  law  ;  an  information  which  (as 
he  had  long  known  himself  to  be  an  attainted  traitor  and 
proclaimed  outlaw,  and  not  only  a  trader  in  blood  himself, 
but  notoriously  the  Captain  of  a  gang  of  thieves,  pirates 
and  assassins)  assuredly  could  not  have  been  new  to  him. 
It  is  this,  however,  which  alone  and  instantly  restores 
him  to  his  accustomed  state  of  raving,  blasphemy,  and- 
nonsense.  Next  follows  Imogine's  constrained  interview 
with  her  injured  husband,  and  his  sudden  departure  again, 
all  in  love  and  kindness,  in  order  to  attend  the  feast  of 
St.  Anselm  at  the  convent.  This  was,  it  must  be  owned, 
a  very  strange  engagement  for  so  tender  a  husband  to 
make  within  a  few  minutes  after  so  long  an  absence. 
But  first  his  lady  has  told  him  that  she  has  *'  a  vow  on 
her,"  and  wishes  "  that  black  perdition  may  gulf  her  per- 
jured soul," — (Note  :  she  is  lying  at  the  very  time) — if 
she  ascends  his  bed,  till  her  penance  is  accomplished. 
How,  therefore,  is  the  poor  husband  to  amuse  himself  in 
Vpi.  IL  16 


182 

this  interval  of  her  penance  ?  But  do  not  be  distressed, 
reader,  on  account  of  the  St.  Aldobrand's  absence!  As 
the  author  has  contrived  to  send  him  out  of  the  house, 
when  a  husband  would  be  in  his,  and  the  lover's  way,  so 
he  will  doubtless  not  be  at  a  loss  to  bring  him  back  again 
as  soon  as  he  is  wanted.  Well !  the  husband  gone  in  on 
the  one  side,  out  pops  the  lover  from  the  other,  and  for 
the  fiendish  purpose  of  harrowing  up  the  soul  of  his 
wretched  accomplice  in  guilt,  by  announcing  to  her  with 
most  brutal  and  blasphemous  execrations  his  fixed  and 
deliberate  resolve  to  assassinate  her  husband  ;  all  this 
too  is  for  no  discoverable  purpose,  on  the  part  of  the  au- 
thor, but  that  of  introducing  a  series  of  super-tragic  starts, 
pauses,  screjims,  strugglin<r,  dagger-throwing,,  falling  on 
the  ground,  starting  up  again  wildly,  swearing,  outcries 
for  help,  falling  again  on  the  ground,  rising  again,  faintly 
tottering  towards  the  door,  and,  to  end  the  scene,  a  most 
convenient  fainting  fit  of  our  lady's,  just  in  time  to  give 
Bertram  an  opportunity  of  seeking  the  object  of  his  ha- 
tred, before  she  alarms  the  house,  which  indeed  she  has 
had  full  time  to  have  done  before,  but  that  the  authoi: 
rather  chose  she  should  amuse  herself  and  the  audience 
by  the  above-described  ravings  and  startings.  She  re- 
covers slowly,  and  to  her  enter  Clotilda,  the  confidante 
and  mother  confessor  ;  then  commences  what  in  theatri- 
Cil  language,  is  called  the  madness,  but  which  the  author 
more  accurately  entitles,  delirium,  it  appearing  indeed  a 
sort  of  intermittent  fever  with  fits  of  light-headedness  off 
and  on,  whenever  occr^sion  and  stage  effect  happen  to  call 
for  it.  A  convenient  return  of  the  storm  (we  told  the 
reader  before-hand  how  it  would  be)  had  changed 

*^  The  rivulet  that  bathed  the  Convent  walls. 
Into  a  foaming  fiood  :   upon  its  brink 
The  Lord  and  his  small  train  do  stand  appalled. 
With  torch  and  bell  from  their  high  battlement^ 
The  monks  do  sunimon  to  the  pass  in  vain ; 
He  must  return  to-night.'* — 

Talk  of  the  devil  and  his  horns  appear,  says  the  pro* 
verb :  and  sure  enough,  within  ten  lines  of  the  exit  of 
the  messenger  sent  to  stop  him,  the  arrival  of  Lord  St. 
Aldobrand  is  announced.  Bertram's  ruffian-band  now 
enter,  and  range  themselves  across  the  stage,  giving  fresh 


iS3 

'Cause  for  Imogine's  screams  and  madness.  St.  Aldobvand 
having  received  his  mortal  wound  behind  the  scenes, 
totters  in  to  welter  in  his  blood,  and  to  die  at  the  feet  of 
this  double-damned  adultress. 

Of  her,  as  far  as  she  is  concerned  in  this  4th  act,  we 
have  two  additional  points  to  notice  :  first,  the  low  cun- 
ning and  Jesuitical  trick  with  which  she  deludes  her  hus- 
band into  zi'ords  of  forgiveness,  which  ho  himself  does 
not  understand  ;  and  secondly,  that  everywhere  she  is 
ma  de  the  object  of  interest  and  sympatb}-,  and  it  is  not  the 
author's  fault,  if  at  any  moment  she  excites  feelings  less 
|!^entle  than  those  we  are  accustomed  to  associate  with 
the  self-accusations  ofa  sincere,  religious  penitent.  And 
did  a  British  audience  endure  all  this  ? — They  received 
it  with  plaudits,  which,  but  for  the  rivalry  of  the  carts 
and  hackney  coaches,  might  have  disturbed  the  evening- 
prayers  of  the  scanty  week  day  congregation  at  St.  Paul's 
cathedral. 

Terapora  mutantwr,  nos  et  mutamur  in  iilis. 

Of  the  fifth  act,  the  only  thing  noticeable  (for  rant  anti 
nonsense,  though  abundant  as  ever,  have  long  before  the 
last  act,  become  things  of  course,)  is  the  profane  repre- 
sentation of  the  high  altar  in  a  chapel,  with  all  the  vessels 
and  other  preparations  for  the  holy  sacrament.  A  hymn 
is  actually  sung  on  the  stage  by  the  choirester  boys  ! 
For  the  rest,  Imogine,  who,  now  and  then  talks  delirious- 
ly, but,  who  is  always  light-headed  as  far  as  her  gown  and 
hair  can  make  her  so,  wanders  about  in  dark  woods  with 
.cavern-rocks  and  precipices  in  the  back  scene  ;  and  a 
number  of  mute  dramatis  personae  move  in  and  out  con- 
tinually, for  whose  presence,  there  is  always,  at  least,  this 
reason,  that  they  afford  something  to  be  seen,  by  that 
very  large  part  of  a  Drury-lane  audience,  who  have 
small  chance  of  hearing  a  word.  She  had,  it  appears, 
taken  her  child  with  her  ;  but  what  becomes  of  the  child, 
whether  she  murdered  it  or  not,  nobody  can  tell,  nobody 
can  learn  ;  it  was  a  riddle  at  the  representation,  and,  after 
^  most  attentive  perusal  of  the  Play,  a  riddle  it  remains. 

**  No  more  I  know,  I  wish  I  did 
And  I  would  tell  it  all  to  you  ; 
For  what  became  of  this  poor  child 
There's  none  that  ever  knew." 

Wordsworth's  Thorn. 


184 

Our  wliole  information^  is  derived  from  the  following 
words — 

*'  Prior. — Where  is  thy  child? 
Clotil. —  (Pointing  to  the  cavern  into  which  she  had  looked) 
Ob    he  lies  cold  within  his  cavern  tomb  ! 
Why  dost  thou  urge  her  with  the  horrid  theme? 
Prior. — (who  will  not,  the  reader  may  observe,  be  disap- 
pointed of  his  dose  ofscoldiug") 
It  was  to  make  (quere  wake)  one  living  cord  o'th'heart, 
And  I  will  try,  tho'  my  own  breaks  at  it. 
Where  is  thy  child  ? 
Imog-. — (With  a  frantic  laugh) 
The  forest-fiend  had  snatched  him— 
He  (who  ?  the  fiend  or  the  child  ?)  rides  the  night-raare 
thro'  llie  wizzard  woods." 

Now,  these  two  lines  consist  in  a  senseless  plagiarism  from 
the  counterfeited  madness  of  Edgar  in  Lear,  who,  in  imi- 
tation of  the  gipsy  incantations,  puns  on  the  old  word 
Mair,  a  Hag  ;  and  the  no  less  senseless  adoption  of  Dry- 
den's  forest-iiend,  and  the  wizzard-stream  by  which  Mil- 
ton, in  his  Lysidas,  so  finely  characterizes  the  spreading 
Deva,  fabulosus  Amnis.  Observe,  too,  these  images  stand 
unique  in  the  speeches  of  Imogine,  without  the  slightest 
resemblance  to  any  thing  she  says  before  or  after.  But 
we  are  weary.  The  characters  in  this  act  frisk  about, 
here,  there,  and  every vvhere,  as  teazingly  as  the  Jack 
o^lanthorn-light?,  which  mischievous  boys,  from  across  a 
TKirrow  street,  throw  with  a  looking-glass  on  the  faces 
of  their  opposite  neighbours.  Bertram  disarmed,  out- 
he  roding  Charles  de  Moor  in  the  Robbers,  befaces  the 
collected  nights  of  St.  Anselm,  (all  in  complete  armour,) 
and  so,  by  pure  dint  of  black  looks,  he  outdares  them 
into  passive  poltrons.  The  sudden  revolution  in  the 
Prior's  manners  we  have  before  noticed,  and  it  is  in- 
deed so  outre,  that  a  number  of  the  audience  imagined  a 
great  secret  was  to  come  out,  viz.  that  the  Prior  was 
one  of  the  many  instances  of  a  youthful  sinner,  me- 
tamorphosed into  an  old  scold,  and  that  this  Bertram 
would  appear  at  last  to  be  his  son.  Imogine  re-appears 
at  the  convent,  and  dies   of  her  own   accord.     Bertram 

*  The  child  is  an  important  personage,  for  I  see  not  by  what  possible 
means  the  author  could  have  ended  the  second  and  third  acts,  but 'for  its 
'imely  appearance      How  ungrateful,  then,  not  further  to  notice  its  fate  : 


185 

stabs  himself,  and  dies  by  her  side^  and  that  the  play  may 
conclude  as  it  began,  viz.  in  a  superfetation  of  blasphe- 
my upon  nonsense,  because  he  had  snatched  a  sword  from  a 
despicable  coward,  who  retreats  in  terror  when  it  is 
pointed  towards  him  in  sport ;  this  felo  de  se,  and  thief- 
captain,  this  loathsome  and  leprous  confluence  of  robbery, 
adultery,  murder,  and  cowardly  assassination,  this  mon- 
ster, whose  best  deed  is,  the  having  saved  his  betters 
from  the  degradation  of  hanging  him,  by  turning  jack 
lietch  to  himself,  first  recommends  the  charitable  Monks 
and  holy  Prior  to  pray  for  his  soul,  and  then  has  the  fol- 
ly and  impudence  to  exclaim — 

*  I  died  no  felon's  death, 
A  warrior's  weapon  freed  a  warrior's  soul  I—'* 


W 


186 
CHAPTER  XXIV. 

CONCLUSION. 

It  sometimes  happens  that  we  are  punished  for  our 
faults  by  incidents,  in  the  causation  of  which  these  faults 
had  no  share  ;  and  this  I  have  always  felt  the  severest 
punishment.  The  wound,  indeed,  is  of  the  same  dimen- 
sions ;  but  the  edges  are  jagged,  and  there  is  a  dull  un- 
der-pain  that  survives  the  smart  which  it  had  aggravated. 
For  there  is  always  a  consolatory  feeling  that  accompa* 
nies  the  sense  of  a  proportion  between  antecedents  and 
consequents.  The  sense  of  before  and  after  becomes 
both  intelligible  and  intellectual  when,  and  only  whin, 
we  contemplate  the  succession  in  the  relations  of  cause 
and  effect,  which,  like  the  two  polt^s  rn  the  magnet,  mani- 
fest the  being  and  unity  of  the  one  power  by  relative 
opposites,  and  give,  as  it  wx*re,  a  substratum  of  perma- 
nence, of  identity,  and,  therefore,  of  reality  to  the  sha- 
dowy flux  of  time,  it  is  eternity  revealing  itself  in  the 
phenomena  of  time  ;  and  the  perception  and  acknow- 
ledgment of  the  proportionality  and  apprupriateness  of 
the  present  to  the  past,  prove  to  the  afflicted  soul  that  it 
has  not  y^i  been  deprived  of  the  sight  of  God  ;  that  it 
can  still  recognise  the  effective  presence  of  a  Father^ 
though  through  a  darkened  glass  and  a  turbid  atmosphere, 
though  of  a  Father  that  is  chastising  it.  And  fc^r  this 
cause,  doubtless,  are  we  so  framed  in  mind,  and  even  s& 
organized  in  brain  and  nerve,  that  all  confusion  is  painful. 
It  is  within  the  experience  of  many  medical  practition- 
ers, that  a  patient,  with  strange  and  unusual  symptoms 
oi  disease,  has  been  more  distressed  in  mind,  more 
ivretched,  from  the  fact  of  being  unintelligrble  to  him- 
self and  others,  than  from  the  pain  or  danger  of  the  dis« 
ease  ;  nay,  that  the  patient  has  received  the  most  solid 
comfort,  and  resumed  a  genial  and  enduring  cheerfulness, 
from  some  new  symptom  or  product,  that  had  at  once  de- 
termined the  name  and  nature  of  his  complaint,  and  ren- 
dered it  an  intelligible  effect  of  an  intelligible  cause  ; 
v^yen  though  the  discovery  did  at  the  same  moment  pi^e- 


tm 

cluJe  all  hope  of  restoration.  Hence  the  rnyakic  tbeo- 
logians,  whose  delusions  we  may  more  confidently  hope 
(o  separate  from,  their  actual  intuitions,  when  we  conde- 
scend to  read  their  works  without  the  presumption  that 
whatever  our  fancy,  (always  the  ape,  and  too  often  the 
adulterator  and  counterfeit  of  our  memory,)  has  not  made 
or  cannot  make  a  picture  of,  must  be  nonsense  ;  hence, 
I  say,  the  Mystics  have  joined  in  representing  the  state  of 
the  reprobate  spirits  as  a  dreadful  dream  in  which  there 
is  no  sense  of  reality,  not  even  of  the  pangs  they  are  en- 
during— an  eternity  without  time,  and,  as  it  were,  below 
it — God  present,  without  manifestation  of  his  presence. 
But  these  are  depths  which  we  dare  not  linger  ovej. 
Let  us  turn  to  an  instance  more  on  a  level  with  the  ordi- 
nary sympathies  of  mankind.  Here,  then,  and  in  this 
same  healing  influence  of  light  and  distinct  beholding, 
we  may  detect  the  final  cause  of  that  instinct  which,  in 
the  great  majority  of  instances,  leads  and  almost  compels 
the  afflicted  to  communicate  their  sorrows.  Hence,  too, 
ilows  the  alleviation  that  results  from  "  opening  out  our 
griefs  ;"  which  are  thus  presented  in  distinguishable  tbrms 
instead  of  the  mist  through  which  whatever  is  shapeless 
becomes  njagnified  and  (literally)  enonnous,  Casimir, 
in  the  fifth  ode  of  his  third  book,. has  happily  expressed 
this  thoijght,* 

Me  longus  silent 
Edit  amor  ;  facilesque  Luctus 
Hausit  medullas.     Fugerit  ocius, 
Simul  negantem  visere  jusseris 
Aures  amicorum,  et  loquacem 
Qoestibus  evacuaris  iram. 

*  ZHassically,  too,  as  far  as  consists  with  the  allegorizing  fancy  of  the 
modern^  that  still  striving  to  project  the  inward,  contra-distinguisiies  itself 
from  the  seeming  ease  with  which  the  poetry  of  the  ancients  reflects  ^e 
"world  without.  Casimir  affords,  perhaps,  the  most  striking  instance  of 
-this  characteristic  difference  ;  for  his  siyh  and  diction  are  really  classical, 
while  Cowley,  who  resembles  Casimir  in  many  respects,  completely  bar- 
barizes his  Latinity,  and  even  his  metre,  by  the  heterogeneous  nature  of 
his  thoughts.  That  Dr.  Johnson  should  have  passed  a  contrary  judg- 
ment, and  have  even  preferred  Cowley's  Latin  poems  to  Milton's,  is  a  ca- 
price that  has,  if  I  mistake  not,  excited  the  sui-prisy  of  all  scholars.  I 
was  much  amused  last  summer  with  the  lau^^hablc  affright  with  which  an 
Italian  poet  perused  a  pa^e  of  Cowley's  Davideis,  contrasted  with  the 
•enthusiasm  with  which  he  tirst  ran  through,  and  the»  read  aloud,  Miltoo^ 
^ansus  and  Ad  Patrem. 


188 

Ohm  querendo  desinimus  queiH. 
Ip&oque  fletu  lacryma  perditur, 
Nee  fortis  aeque,  si  per  omoes 
Cura  volet  residctque  ramos. 

Vires  amicis  perdit  in  auribus 
Minorque  semper  dividitur  dolor 
Per  multa  permissus  vagari 
Pectora. — 

Id.  Lib.  iii.  Od.  5. 


1  shall  not  make  this  an  excuse,  however,  for  troubling 
my  readers  with  any  complaints  or  explanations,  with 
which,  as  readers,  they  have  little  or  no  concern.  It  may 
suffice,  (for  the  present  at  least,)  to  declare  that  the 
causes  that  have  delayed  the  publication  of  these  vo- 
lumes for  so  long  a  period  after  they  had  been  printed 
off,  were  not  connected  with  any  neglect  of  my  own  ; 
and  that  they  would  form  an  instructive  comment  on  the 
chapter  concerning  authorship  as  a  trade,  addressed  to 
young  men  of  genius  in  the  first  volume  of  this  work.  I 
remember  the  ludicrous  effect  which  the  first  sentence  of 
an  auto-biography,  which,  happily  for  the  writer,  was  as 
meagre  in  incidents  as  it  is  well  possible  for  the  life  of  an 
individual  to  be — ^"The  eventful  \i(e  which  I  am  about 
to  record,  from  the  hour  i;i  which  I  rose  into  exist  on 
this  planet,  &c  "  Yet  when,  notwithstanding  this  w^arn- 
ing  example  of  self-importance  before  me,  1  review  my 
ow'n  life,  I  cannot  refrain  from  applying  the  same  epithet 
to  it,  and  with  more  than  ordinary  emphasis — and  no  pri- 
vate feeling,  that  affected  myself  only,  should  prevent  me 
from  publishing  the  same,  (for  write  it  I  assuredly  shall, 
should  life  and  leisure  be  granted  me)  if  continued  re- 
ilection  should  strengthen  my  present  belief,  that  my  his- 
tory would  add  its  contingent  to  the  enforcement  of  one 
important  trutii,  viz.  that  we  must  not  only  love  our 
neighbours  as  ourselves,  but  ourselves  likewise  as  our 
neighbours;  and  that  we  can  do  neither  unless  we  love 
God  above  both. 

Who  lives,  that's  not 
Depraved  or  depraves  ?     Who  dies,  thai  bears 
'JS*ot  one  sfiurn  to  the  grave — of  their  friends.^  gift  J 


189 

Strange  as  the  delusion  may  appear,  yet  it  is  most  true, 
that  three  years  ago  I  did  not  know  or  believe  that  I  had 
an  enemy  in  the  world  ;  and  now  even  my  strongest  sen- 
sations of  gratitude  are  mingled  with  fear,  and  I  reproach 
myself  for  being  too  often  disposed  to  ask — Ha-  e  I  one 
friend  ? — During  the  many  years  which  intervened  be- 
tween the  composition  and  the  publication  of  the  Chris- 
table,  it  became  almost  as  well  known  among  literary 
men  as  if  it  had  been  on  common  sale,  the  same  referen- 
ces were  made  to  it,  and  the  same  liberties  taken  with 
it,  even  to  the  very  names  of  the  imaginary  persons  in 
the  poem.  From  almost  all  of  our  most  celebrated  Po- 
€ts,  and  from  some  with  whom  I  had  no  personal  ac- 
quaintance, I  either  received  or  heard  of  expressions  of 
xidmiration  that  (I  can  truly  say)  appeared  to  myself  ut- 
terly disproportionate  to  a  work  that  pretended  to  be 
nothing  more  than  a  common  Faery  Tale.  Many,  who 
had  allowed  no  merit  to  my  other  poems,  whether  print- 
ed or  manuscript,  aud  who  have  frankly  told  me  as  much, 
uniformly  made  an  exception  m  favour  of  the  Ghrista- 
BEL  and  the  Poem  entitled  Love.  Year  after  year,  and 
in  societies  of  the  most  different  kinds,  I  had  been  en- 
treated to  recite  it  ;  and  the  result  was  still  the  same  in 
all,  and  altogether  different  in  this  respect  from  the  effect 
produced  by  the  occasional  recitation  of  any  other  poems 
I  had  composed. — This  before  the  publication.  And 
since  then,  with  very  few  exceptions,  I  have  heard  no- 
thing but  abuse,  and  this  too  in  a  spirit  of  bitterness  at 
least  as  disproportionate  to  the  pretensions  of  the  poem, 
had  it  been  the  most  pitiably  below  mediocrity,  as  the 
previous  eulogies,  and  far  more  inexplicable.  In  the 
Edinburgh  Review  it  was  assailed  with  a  malignity  and  a 
spirit  of  personal  hatred  that  ought  to  have  injured  only 
the  work  in  which  such  a  tirade  was  suffered  to  ap- 
pear ;  and  this  review  was  generally  attributed  (whether 
rightly  or  no  I  know  not)  to  a  man  who,  both  in  my  pre- 
sence and  in  my  absence,  has  repeatedly  pronounced  it 
the  finest  poem  of  its  kind  in  the  language.  This  may 
serve  as  a  warning  to  authors,  that  in  their  calculations 
on  the  probable  reception  of  a  poem,  they  must  subtract 
to  a  large  amount  from  the  panegyric  ;  which  may  have 
encourged  them  to  publish  it,  however  unsuspicious  and 
ihowever  various  the  sources  of  this  panegyric  may  have 


190 

been.  AnJ,  first,  allowances  must  be  made  for  private 
enmity,  of  the  very  existence  of  which  they  had  per- 
haps entertained  no  suspicion — for  personal  enmity  be- 
hind the  mask  of  anonymous  criticism  :  secondly,  for  the 
necessity  of  a  certain  proportion  of  abuse  and  ridicule  in 
a  Review,  in  order  to  make  it  saleable  ;  in  consequence 
of  which,  if  they  have  no  friends  behind  the  scenes,  the 
chance  must  needs  be  against  them  ;  but  lastly,  and  chief- 
ly, for  the  excitement  and  temporary  sympathy  of  feel- 
ing, which  the  recitation  of  the  poem  by  an  admirer, 
especially  if  he  be  at  once  a  warm  admirer  and  a  man  of 
acknowledged  celebrity,  calls  forth  in  the  audience. 
For  this  is  really  a  species  of  Animal  Magnetism,  in 
which  the  enkindling  Reciter,  by  perpetual  comment  of 
looks  and  tones,  lends  his  own  will  and  apprehensive 
iliculty  to  his  Auditors.  They  live  for  the  time  within 
the  dilated  sphere  of  his  intellectual  Being.  It  is  equal- 
ly possible,  though  not  equally  common,  that  a  reader 
left  to  himself  should  sink  below  the  poem,  as  that  the 
poem  left  to  itself  should  flag  beneath  the  feelings  of  the 
reader. — But  in  my  own  instance,  I  had  the  additional 
mirfortune  of  having  been  gossipped  about,  as  devoted 
to  metaphysics,  and  worse  than  all,  to  a  system  incom- 
parably nearer  to  the  visionary  flights  of  Plato,  and  even 
to  the  jargon  of  the  mystics,  than  to  the  established  te- 
nets of  Locke.  Whatever,  therefore,  appeared  with  my 
name  was  condemned  before  hand,  as  predestined  meta- 
physics. In  a  dramatic  poem,  which  had  been  submit- 
ted by  me  to  a  gentleman  of  great  influence  in  the  Tha.- 
atrical  world,  occurred  the  following  passage  :— 

O  we  are  querulous  creatures!     Little  less 
Than  all  things  can  suffice  to  make  us  happy  : 
And  little  more  than  nothing  is  enough 
To  make  us  wretchede 

Aye,  here  now  !  (exclaimed  the  Critic)  here  come  Cole- 
ridge's Metaphysics  !  And  the  very  same  motive  (that 
is,  not  that  the  lines  were  unfit  for  the  present  state  of 
our  immense  Theatres,  but  that  they  were  Metaphys- 
ics'^) was  assigned  elsewhere   for  the  rejection  of  the 

*  Poor  unlucky  Metaphysics  !  and  what  are  they  ?  A  single  sentence 
expresses  the  object  and  thereby  the  contents  of  tfiis  science.  Fvw^i  ch- 
isuTov :  el  Deuni  quantum  licet  et  in  Deo  omnia  scibis.    Know  thj^^elf 


191 

two  following  passages.  The  first  is  spoken  in  answer 
to  a  usiirper,  who  had  rested  his  plea  on  the  circum- 
stance, that  he  had  been  chosen  by  the  acclamations  oi' 
the  people  : — 

What  people?  Howconven'd?  OrifconvenM, 

Must  Dot  that  magic  power  that  charms  together 

Blillions  of  men  in  council,  needs  have  power 

To  win  or  wield  them  ?  Rather,  O  far  rather, 

Shout  forth  thy  titles  to  yon  circling  mountains. 

And  with  a  thousandfold  reverberation 

Make  the  rocks  flatter  thee,  and  the  volleying  air, 

Unbribed,  shout  back  to  thee,  King  Emerich  ! 

By  wholesome  laws  to  embank  the  Sovereign  Power; 

To  deepen  by  restraint;  and  by  prevention 

Of  lawless  will  to  amass  and  guide  the  flood 

in  its  majestic  channel,  is  man's  task 

And  the  true  patriot's  glory  !   In  all  else 

iMen  safclier  trust  to  heaven,  than  to  themselves 

When  least  themselves  :  even  in  those  whirling  crowds 

"Where  folly  is  contagious,  and  too  oft 

Even  wise  men  leave  their  better  sense  at  home 

To  chide  and  wonder  at  them,  when  return'd. 

The  second  passage  is  in  the  mouth  of  an  old  and  expe- 
rienced Courtier,  betrayed  by  the  man  in  whom  he  had 

mosl  trusted. 

And  yet  Sarolta,  simple,  inexperienced, 

Could  see  him  as  he  was  and  oft  has  warn'd  me. 

Whence  learnt  she  this  ?  O  she  av as  innocent. 

And  to  be  innocent  is  Nature's  vvisdom. 

The  fledge  dove  knows  the  prowlers  of  the  air 

Fear'd  soon  as  seen,  and  flutters  back  to  shelter  f 

And  the  young  steed  recoils  upon  his  haunches, 

The  never-yet-seen  adder's  hiss  first  heard  1 

Ah!  fcurer  than  suspicion's  hundred  eyes 

Is  that  fine  sense,  which  to  the  pure  in  heart 

By  mere  oppugnancy  of  their  own  goodness 

Keveals  the  approach  of  evil ! 

As,  therefore,  my  character  as  a  writer  could  not  easily 
be  more    injured  by  an  overt-act    than  it    was  already  ia 

and  so  shall  thou  know  God,  as  far  as  is  permitted  to  a  creature,  and  in 
God  all  \hings. — Surely,  there  is  a  strange— nay,  rather  a  too  jnaturaL 
JiVersic«i  iamany  to  know  themselves. 


192 

consequence  of  the  report,  1  published  a  work,  a  large 
portion  of  which  was  professedly  metaphysical.  A  long 
delay  occurred  between  its  first  annunciation  and  its  ap- 
pearance;  it  was  reviewed  thfrefore  by  anticipation  with 
a  malignity,  so  avowedly  and  exclusively  personal,  as  is, 
I  believe,  unprecedented  even  in  the  present  contempt 
of  all  common  humanity  that  disgraces  and  endangers  the 
liberty  of  the  press  After  its  appearance,  the  author 
of  this  lampoon  was  chosen  to  review  it  in  the  Edinburgh 
Review  ;  and  under  the  single  condition,  that  he  should 
have  written  what  he  himself  really  thought,  and  have 
criticised  the  work  as  he  would  have  done  had  ts  author 
been  ind  flerent  to  him,  I  should  have  chosen  that  man 
myself  both  from  the  vigour  and  the  originality  of  his 
mind,  and  from  his  parti(!ular  acuteness  in  speculative 
reasoning,  before  all  others.  I  remembered  Catullus's 
lines, 

Desine  de  quoquam  quicquam  bene  velle  mereri, 

Aut  aliquem  fieri  posse  putare  pium. 
Omnia  sunt  ingrata:  nihil  fecisse  benigne  est; 

Imo%  etiam  taedet,  taedet  obestque  magis. 
Ut  mihi,  quern  nemo  gravius  nee  aceribus  urget 

Quam  modoqui  me  unum  atque  unicum  amicum  habuit. 

But  I  can  truly  say,  that  the  grief  with  which  I  read 
this  rhapsody  of  predetermined  insult,  bad  the  Rhapso- 
dist  himself  for  its  whole  and  sole  object:  and  that  the 
indignant  contempt  which  it  excited  in  me  was  as  ex- 
clusively confined  to  hi^  employer  and  suborner.  I  refer 
to  this  Review  at  present,  in  consequence  of  information 
having  been  sjiven  me,  that  the  innuendo  of  my  "  poten- 
tial infidelity,"  grounded  on  one  passage  of  my  first  Lay- 
Sermon,  has  been  received  and  propagated  with  a  degree 
of  credence,  of  w^hich  I  can  safely  acquit  the  originator  of 
the  calumny.  I  give  the  sentences  as  they  st?nd  in  the 
sermon,  premising  only  that  I  was  speaking  exclusively 
of  miracles  worked  for  the  outward  senses  of  men  '*  It 
was  only  to  overthrow  the  usurpation  exercised  in  and 
through  the  senses,  that  the  senses  were  miraculously  ap- 
pealed to.  Reason  and  Religion  are  their  own  evi- 
dence. The  natural  sun  is  in  this  respect  a  symbol  of 
the  spiritual.     Ere  he  is  fully  arisen,  and  while  his  glories 


193 

are  still  under  veil,  he  calls  up  the  breeze  to  chase  away 
the  usurping  vapours  of  the  night  season,  and  thus  con* 
verts  the  air  itself  into  the  minister  of  its  own  purification : 
not  surely  in  proof  or  elucidation  of  the  light  from  heaven, 
but  lo  prevent  its  interception. 

''  Wherever,  therefore,  similar  circumstances  co-exist 
with  the  same  moral  causes,  the  principles  revealed,  and 
the  examples  recorded,  in  the  inspired  writings,  render 
miracles  superfluous  :  and  if  we  neglect  to  apply  truths 
in  expectation  of  wonders,  or  under  pretext  of  the  cessa- 
tion of  the  latter,  we  tempt  God,  and  merit  the  same  re- 
ply which  our  Lord  gave  to  the  Pharisees  on  a  like 
oecasion." 

In  the  sermon  and  the  notes,  both  the  historical  truth  and 
the  necessity  of  the  miracles  are  strongly  and  frequently 
asserted.  ■'  The  testimony  of  books  of  history,  (i.  e.  re- 
latively to  the  signs  and  wonders,  with  which  Christ 
came,)  is  one  of  the  strong  and  stately  pillars  of  the 
church  ;  but  it  is  not  the  foundation  /"  Instead,  there- 
fore, of  defending  myself,  which  I  could  easily  eifect  by 
a  series  of  passages,  expressing  the  same  opinion,  from  the 
Fathers  and  the  most  eminent  Protestant  Divines,  from  the 
Reformation  to  the  Revolution,  I  shall  merely  state  what 
my  belief  is,  concerning  the  true  evidences  of  Christianity, 
.1.  Its  consistency  with  right  Reason,  I  consider  as  the 
outer  Court  of  the  Temple — the  common  area,  within 
which  it  stands.  2.  The  miracles,  with  and  through 
which  the  Religion  was  first  revealed  and  attested,  I  re- 
gard as  the  steps,  the  vestibule,  and  the  portal  of  the 
Temple.  3.  The  sense,  the  inward  feeling,  in  the  soul 
of  each  Believer  of  its  exceeding  desirableness — the  expe- 
rience  that  he  needs  something,  joined  with  the  strong 
foretokening,  that  the  Redemption  and  the  Graces  pro- 
pounded to  us  in  Christ,  are  whath^  needs  ; — this  I  hold 
to  be  the  true  Foundation  of  the  spiritual  Edifice.  With 
the  strong  apWori  probabilit}'  that  flows  in  from  1  and  3  on 
the  correspondent  historical  evidence  of  2,  no  man  can 
refuse  or  neglect  to  make  the  experiment  without  guilt. 
But,  4,  it  is  the  experience  derived  from  a  practical  con- 
formity to  the  conditions  of  theGbspel — it  is  the  opening 
Eye  ;  the  dawning  Light  ;  the  terrors  and  the  promises 
of  spiritual  Growth  ;  the  blessedness  of  loving  God  as 
God,  the  nascent  sense  of  Sin  hated  as  Sin,  and  of  thein- 

VoL.n.  n 


I9i 

eapability  oi  attaing  to  eiiher  without  Christ  :  it  is  the 
sorrow  that  sail  rises  up  Irom  beneath,  and  the  conso- 
lation that  meets  it  from  above  ;  the  bosom  treacheries 
of  the  Friacipal  in  the  warfare,  and  the  exceeding  faith- 
fiihiess  and  long-suneriniT  of  the  uninterested  Ally  ; — in 
a  word,  it  is  the  actual  Trial  of  the  Faith  in  Christ,  with 
its  accompaniments  and  results,  that  must  form  the  arched 
UooF,  and  tlie  Faith  itself  is  the  completing Kev-stone.  In 
order  to  an  ethcient  belief  in  Christianity,  a  man  must  have 
been  a  Christian,  and  this  is  the  seeming  argumentum  in 
circulo,  incident  to  all  spiritual  Truths,  to  every  subject 
not  presentable  under  the  forms  of  Time  and  Space,  as 
long  as  we  attempt  to  master  by  the  retlex  acts  of  the 
Undertandin^,  what  we  can  only  hiozc  by  the  act  of  6c- 
coming,  *'  Do  the  will  of  my  father,  and  ye  shall  know 
whether  I  am  of  God.**  These  four  evidences  I  beheve 
to  have  been,  and  stiil  to  be.  for  the  world,  tor  the  whole 
church,  all  necessary,  all  equally  necessary  ;  but  that 
at  present,  and  tor  the  majority  of  Christians  born  in 
Christian  countries,  I  believe  the  third  and  the  fourth 
evidences  to  be  the  most  operative,  not  as  superseding, 
but  as  involving  a  glad  undoubting  tliith  in  the  two  former. 
CreJidi,  inde6que  intellexi,  appears  to  me  the  dictate 
equally  of  Philosophy  and  Religion,  even  as  I  believe 
Redemption  to  be  the  antecedent  of  Sanctihcation,  and 
not  its  consequent.  All  spiritual  predicates  may  be  con- 
strued indiderently  as  modes  of  Action,  or  as  states  of 
Being.  Thus  Holiness  and  Blessednesss  are  the  same 
idea,  now  seen  in  relation  to  act.  and  now  to  existence. 
The  ready  belief  which  has  been  yielded  to  the  shmder 
of  my  **  potential  intidelity,*'  I  attribute  in  part  to  the 
openness  with  which  1  have  avowed  my  doubts,  whether 
the  heavy  interdict,  under  which  the  name  of  Bexedict 
Spixoza  lies,  is  merited  on  the  whole,  or  to  the  whole  ex- 
tent. Be  this  as  it  may.  1  wish,  however^  that  I  could 
find  in  the  books  of  philosophy,  -theoretical  or  moral, 
nhich  are  alone  recommended  to  the  present  students 
of  Theoloiry  in  our  established  schools,  a  few  passages 
as  thoroughly  Pauline,  as  completely  accordant  with  the 
doctrines  of  the  established  Church,  as  the  following  sen- 
tences in  the  concluding  page  of  Spinoza's  Ethics.  Deinde 
quo  mens  amore  divine  seu  beafitudine  magis  gaudet,  eo 
plus  {ntelh'git,  c6  majorem  in  uffeclus  habct  potentiam,  et 


195 

e6  minus  ab  affectibus,  qui  mah*  sunt,  patitur  :  atque  ade6  ex 
eo,  qu6d  mens  hoc  amore  divino  seu  beatitudine  gaudet, 
potestatem  habet  libidines  coercendi,  nemo  beatitudine 
gaudet  quia  affectus  coercuit ;  sed  contra  potestas  libi- 
dines coercendi  ex  ipsa  beatitudine  oritur. 

With  regard  to  the  Unitarians,  it  has  been  shamelessly 
asserted,  that  1  have  denied  them  to  be  Christians.  God 
forbid  !  For  how  should  I  know  what  the  piety  of  the 
heart  may  be,  or  what  quantum  of  error  in  the  under- 
standing may  consist  with  a  saving  faith  in  the  intentions 
and  actual  dispositions  of  the  whole  moral  being  in  any 
one  individual  ?  Never  will  God  reject  a  soul  that  sincere- 
ly loves  him,  be  his  speculative  opinions  what  they 
may  ;  and  whether  in  any  given  instance  certain  opi- 
nions, be  they  unbelief  or  misbelief,  are  compatable 
with  a  sincere  love  of  God,  God  only  can  know.  But 
this  I  have  said,  and  shall  continue  to  say;  that  if  the 
doctrines,  the  sum  of  which  I  believe  to  constitute  the 
truth  in  Christ,  he  Christianity,  then  unitarian^sm  is  not, 
and  vice  versa  :  and  that  in  speaking  theologically  and 
impersonally^  i.  e.  of  Psilanthropism  and  Theanthropism 
as  schemes  of  belief,  without  reference  to  individuals 
who  profess  either  the  one  or  the  other,  it  will  be  absurd 
to  use  a  different  language  as  long  as  it  is  the  dictate  of 
common  sense,  that  two  opposites  cannot  properly  be 
called  by  the  same  name.  1  should  feel  no  offence  if  a 
unitarian  applied  the  same  to  me,  any  more  than  if  he 
were  to  say,  that  2  and  2  being  4,  4  and  4  must  be  8. 

AXXa  P^oTwv 
Tov  iltv  K£vo(ppov«  aoXQJ 

Tov  S*  axi  xaTcjAEjKpS-fvT'  a<yav 

Jo"xuv  OIKftWV  xaT£CT(pGA.fV  KaV-*3V 

XfijtfJ  fAxcov  ozrio-o-co,  ©ujioj  ctoAmo'* 

This  has  been  my  object,  and  this  alone  can  be  my 
defence — and  O  !  that  with  this  my  personal  as  well  as 
my  LiTERATY  LIFE  might  conclude  !  the  unquenched  de- 
sire I  mean,  not  v/ithout  the  CQnsciousness  of  having 
earnestly  endeavoured  to  kindle  young  minds,  and  to 
guard  them  against  the  temptations  of  Scorners,  by 
showing  that  the  Scheme  of  Christianity,  as  taught  in  the 
Liturgy  and  Homilies  of  our  Church,  though  not  disco- 


196 

verable  by  human  Reason,  is  yet  in  accordance  with  it: 
thfit  link  follows  link  by  necessary  consequence  ;  that 
Religion  passes  out  of  the  ken  of  reason  only  where  the 
eye  of  reason  has  reached  its  own  horizon  ;  and  that 
faith  is  then  but  its  continuation  :  even  as  the  day  sof- 
tens away  into  the  sw  eet  twilight,  and  twilight,  hushed 
and  breathles?,  steals  into  the  darkness.  It  is  night,  sa- 
cred night !  the  upraised  eye  views  only  the  starry  hea- 
ven which  manifests  itself  alone  ;  and  the  outward  be- 
holding is  fixed  on  the  sparks  twinkling  in  the  awful 
depth,  though  s\ms  of  other  worlds,  only  to  preserve  the 
soul  steady  and  collected  in  its  pure  act  of  inward  adora- 
tion to  the  great  I  AM,  and  to  the  filial  Word  that  re-af- 
firneth  it  from  eternity  to  eternity,  whose  choral  echo 
18  th^  universe. 

0En  MONa  AOSA. 


PINTS 


THE 

EDINBURGH  AND  QUARTERLY  REVIEWS, 

ARE  REGULARLY  REPUBLISHED  BY 

KIRK  &  MERCEIN, 

jYo.  22  Wall-street, 

And  forwarded  to  the  subscribers  throughout  the  United 
States,  by  mail  or  such  other  conveyance  as  may  be  di- 
rected by  the  patrons  of  the  work.  The  very  great  in- 
crease of  patronage  which  the  present  pubHshers  have 
received,  and  the  following  extracts  from  recommenda-» 
tions  from  several  of  the  most  eminent  Hterary  charac- 
ters in  our  country,  will  be  sufficient  to  evince  the  con- 
tinued interest  and  merit  of  these  distinguished  journals. 

Salem,  (Mass.)  JVov.  11,  1816. 
Gentlemen, 

I  have  the  pleasure  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of 
your  letter  of  the  2d  inst.  If  anything  I  could  say  would 
increase  the  circulation  of  the  Edinburgh  and  Quarterly 
Reviews,  my  testimony  would  b^  very  cheerfully  given 
in  their  favour.  They  are,  however,  so  well  k^own  in 
the  United  states,  and  their  character,  critical,  literary^ 
and  scientific,  is  so  well  established,  that  commendation 
seems  almost  useless.  They  have  hitherto  made  'their 
way  to  a  very  general  patronage  by  their  intrinsic  excel- 
lence in  almost  every  department  of  knowledge  ;  and  if 
they  continue  to  exhibit  the  same  spirit  of  research,  and 
the  same  variety  of  talent,  we  may  all  say,  in  the 
language  of  Dr.  Johnson,  it  will  be  vain  to  blame,  and 
useless  to  praise  them. 

I  am,  very  respectfully,  your  most  obedient  servant, 

JOSEPH  STORY. 

Washington,  J^ov,  9,  1816. 
Gentlemen, 

The  only  hesitation  which  I  feel  in  replying  to  your 
letter  of  the  6th  of  this  month,  is,  that  commendation  of 
the  Edinburgh  Review,  at  any  hands,  would  seem  super- 
fluous. The  more  it  is  read  the  better.  Besides  the 
useful  and  various  matter  which  enrich  its  pages,  so  of- 
ten, too,  assuming  an  elementary  cast,  there  is  scarcely 
a  number  but  brings  with  it  the  gratifications  of  classic 
and  beautiful  writing.     If  its  disquisitions  sometimes  slide 


into  unkindness  to  America,  it  is  not  often,  and  it  comes 
to  us,  upon  the  whole,  even  upon  this  ground,  with  a 
great  preponderance  of  redeeming  merit.  Readers  of 
taste  open  its  numbers  with  avidity.  In  science  it  is  in- 
structive, in  morals  pure,  in  the  Belles  Lettres  delight- 
ful, and  in  politics  we  frequently  see  it  pleading  with 
eloquence  and  spirit  the  just  rights  of  minkind.  I,  for 
one,  most  heartily  wish  it  a  wide  circulation  in  our 
country.  It  cannot  fail  to  help  the  cause  of  literature 
and  genius. 

I  am,  respectfuly,  your  obedient  servant, 

RICHARD  RUSH. 

New-York,  Dec.  3,  1816. 
Gentlemen, 

The  reputation  of  the  Edinburgh  and  Quarterly  Re- 
views, for  literature,  science,  and  criticism,  is  so  well 
and  justly  established,  as  to  render  commendation  from 
any  quarter  superfluous.  That  you  may  succeed  iu 
your  laudable  undertaking  is  my  earnest  wish. 
Your's,  &c. 

JOHN  B.  ROMEYN. 

New-York,  \^th  Nov,  1816. 
Gentlemen, 

I  shall  be  happy  if  any  opinion  of  mine,  as  to  the  me- 
rits and  utility  of  the  Quarterly  and  Edinburgh  Reviews, 
can  be  of  service  to  you. 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  commencement  of  these  publi- 
cations will  form  a  new  and  brilliant  era  in  the  history  of 
literature  ;  not  only  as  they  are  distinguished  from  every 
thing  of  the  same  nature  which  preceded  them  in  point 
©f  literary  merit,  but  as  it  introduced  a  new  and  happy 
mode  of  diffusing  scientific  information. 

I  consider  these  Journals  as  invaluable  to  a  great  many 
people  in  this  country,  who,  like  myself,  cannot  have 
access  to  the  books  to  which  they  introduce  us,  and  who 
have  not  much  leisure  for  reading  on  subjects  uncon- 
nected with  our  professional  pursuits.  Very  often,  indeed, 
we  learn  from  them  but  little  of  the  writers  which  they 
profess  to  review ;  but  they  afford  us  information  as  to 
the  state  and  transactions  of  the  republic  of  letters  which 
we  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic  could  not  gather  from  any 
other  source.  They  give  us  a  knowledge  of  the  peo- 
ple, religion,  morals,mann€rs,  politics,  and  literature  of 


urope,  and  of  the  arts  and  sciences,  and  of  th^,  improve- 
ments which  are  daly  makin-^;  on  therr>,  which  wc'  should 
be  in  a  ^^reat  measure  without,  were  it  not  for  thrs-  i\  rks. 

For  my  own  part,  I  feel  so  mach  indehted  to  these 
Reviewers,  that  I  can  very  readily  foriive  them  the  m- 
justice  and  illiberality  with  which  they  son j>  times  treat 
our  country  and  countryme».  We  sho'^ld  ior  k  on  these 
|)arts  of  their  work  with  the  same  compasoion  or  con- 
tempt that  we  regard  the  acts  of  otiter  men,  who  nave 
the  misfortune  to  be  ignorant,  or,  who  are  so  unhappy  as 
to  be  under  the  influence  of  envy,  jealousy,  or  pride. — 
We  shall  by  and  by,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  have  on  tliis  side 
the  Atlantic,  reviews  conducted  with  some  portion  of 
the  ability  which  distinguishes  the  Qiarterly  and  Edin- 
burgh, and  then  Europeans  will  be  better  acquainted 
with  us. 

1  am,  gentlemen,  very  respectfully, 

your  obedient  hiim.ble  servant, 
CADWALLADER  D.  COLDEX. 


Extract  from  a  letter  from  C.  A.  Rodney,  Esq.  dated 
Vfilmington,  {Del.)  JVov,  18^//,  1816. 

In  this  excellent  journal,  the  scholar,  the  philosopher, 
and  the  statesman,  may  all  find  lessons  of  instruction  ;  and 
neither  of  them  should  be  without  a  copy.  To  profes- 
sional men,  and  to  those  in  the  common  walk  of  life,  it 
affords  a  constant  fund  of  rational  entertainment  and  valu- 
able information.  To  the  fair  sex  it  is  a  precious  acqui- 
sition at  this  enlightened  period,  w^ien  they  have  been 
justly  admitted  to  share  in  the  common  stock  of  science 
and  literature. 

The  volumes  already  published,  furnish  a  library  of 
modern  knowledge  and  late  improvements  in  the  arts, 
united  with  ancient  learning  and  classical  lore  ;  they  al- 
most complete  the  circle  of  the  sciences. 

The  merits  of  the  Reviews  mentioned  in  the  above 
statement,  are,  in  my  opinion,  pre-eminently  great,  as 
literary  works,  and  the  American  publishers  are  entitled 
to  the  public  patronage. 

DE  WITT  CLINTON. 

Neu^'York,  \^th  August,  1812.        ^ 

The  Edinburgh  and  Quarterly  Reviews  being  superior 
to  all  other  works  of  the  same  kind,  I  earnestly  hope  that 


the  proprietors  may  be  encouraged  to  continue  their  re- 
publiCfition  in  this  country. 

August,  1812.  RUFUS  KING. 

I  cordially  concur  in  the  same  recommendation  of  the 
repuhHcation  of  the  Edinburt;h  and  Quarterly  Reviews, 
and  in  the  same  opinion  of  their  merits. 

JAMES  KENT. 

I  sincerely  concur  in  the  wish  that  the  American  pub- 
lisher of  the  Edinburgh  and  Quarterly  Reviews  may  be 
encouraged  to  continue  the  republication  of  them. 

J.  H.  HOBERT. 

The  Edinburgh  Review,  now  many  years  published,  I 
have  read  with  great  pleasure,  and  I  hope  not  without 
some  improvement,  it  has  worked  its  own  way  frora 
the  horizon  to  the  zenith,  and  its  ascent  has  left  a  path 
sufficiently  luminous  to  show  how  greatly  it  has  distanced 
all  its  competitors,  by  interesting  and  enlightening  the 
four  quarters  of  the  globe,  wherever  British  prowess 
or  British  enterprise  has  introduced  its  native  language  ; 
*'in  regions  where  the  Roman  Eagles  never  flew,"  its 
celebrity  is  established  ;  and  the  elaboration  of  science, 
depth  of  research,  poignancy  of  satire,  acumen  of  wit, 
and  raciness  of  pleasantry  with  which  it  abounds,  no  lon- 
ger stand  in  need  of  an  eulogist  ;  but  notwithstanding  this, 
it  may  not  be  superfluous  to  remark,  that  the  intelligence 
and  liberality  it  has  manifested  in  its  recent  discussions 
of  this  country,  at  once  peculiarly  recommend  and  adapt 
it  for  the  perusal  of  American  readers. 

J.  LLOYD. 

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